Fighting Land
by godfreyraphael
Summary: Two girls. One villain. A series of events that will shake the foundations of the new world order. Can Carter and Rosie stop this madman? Set after the movie. Not your average PPP fanfic.
1. Prologue: Impractical

Impractical.

That was how Carter Mason saw it. Instead of just swooping down on the headquarters of the Palawan separatists, the KGB had to draw them out with a lucrative mineral find that most probably wasn't true. But she wasn't about to complain. Working with real spies, doing real stuff, it was certainly a hell of a lot more exciting than rescuing princesses. The closest thing to excitement that came to her before was imitating those Russian soldiers on skis back in Helsinki.

Now she knew she was watching way more Russian war films than ever.

Another part of Carter was glad that she was doing this. Soon after Palawan's declaration of independence, ten American servicemen were killed in the assault for the Puerto Princesa airfields. This mission was about to be served as a very big—and very painful—back at you.

The back of their rental Toyota was full of geological equipment. Understanding their workings in English was hard enough, and now they had to explain how they worked in another language? At least she was still partners with Rosie. She took just one look at the phrasebook and then began speaking like a native.

Headlights appeared on the road beside them. Carter shook Rosie awake, and waited while the lights got nearer. "How are we going to do this again?" she asked.

"I think I should do all the talking," Rosie replied. "You don't know enough Tagalog to order a burger."

"Too right. How about taking them down?"

Rosie brought out a industrial flashlight. Carter turned away, muttering, "I don't wanna know."

The car was a silver Toyota Vios, and the man who stepped out was wearing jungle fatigues and wielding a Russian RPD light machine gun. The two women took that as a cue to step out of their vehicle. The search was surprisingly quick and halfhearted. The soldier then made some gestures with his right hand.

Severino de los Angeles, President of the Independent State of Palawan, stepped out of his car and headed for the two geologists. His brainchild was the invasion of the Cuyo Islands, with their untouched silicon deposits. But there wasn't much more minerals left to make the silicon useful for computer applications. With the discovery of the relatively unknown element technetium as the new wave of supercomputing, and the possibility of a very large mother lode underneath his own country, geology was looking very attractive to him.

"Mr. de los Angeles, it's nice to see you in person," Rosie began in Tagalog. "Dr. Pascual sends his regards."

"Ah, yes," he muttered. Dr. Regulado Pascual was one of the world's top geologists, and the top one in the Philippines. "Are you sure that there is a deposit of technetium underneath this mountain?"

"Yes, Mr. de los Angeles. In fact, the discovery of natural technetium would be a very astounding one. Before, all of the world's technetium was in nuclear reactors, and that's why there was little silicon-technetium hardware lately. With this find, which we estimate at one billion tons, you could become the world's leading producer of technetium within the day. Would you like to see some of our samples?" Rosie gestured to Carter to go to the back of the van.

Opening the door, Carter was greeted by a piece of paper taped to one of the boxes. It read, "Shout this," followed by a question in Tagalog, but as far as she was concerned, it was Martian to her.

"What did we just say to each other?" Carter asked when the two of them were at the back.

"You just asked where the sample rocks were, and I just berated you, because you supposedly have a forgetful streak."

"Wow, that's bad."

"Close your eyes."

They hadn't scheduled the meet at night just because they wanted to. If the plan was to work, the absence of daylight was needed. And it worked like a charm. The flashlight, possessing the lighting power of a million candles, blinded the three men. Within moments all three were cuffed.

"What did I tell you, Carter?"

"Very nice, Rosie. You could've blinded those guys." She then reached for the radio clipped to her belt and said, "Hammer, this is Sickle. VIP is secure."

"Hammer copies, Sickle," the radio replied. "On the way." A Black Hawk helicopter appeared on the horizon a few minutes later, the newest addition to the aerial fleet of the Russian Spetsnaz. De Los Angeles was lifted off the ground, and his face was covered with a sack.

"The _rezident_ wants a full briefing tomorrow," the commander told the two. "And by the way, the Director says good job."

And with these events, the Independent State of Palawan was no more.


	2. Act One: Afghanistan

Puerto Princesa, Palawan

1130 local time

"_Soldiers from the Philippine Special Forces have arrested Severino de los Angeles in his mansion in Palawan yesterday. de los Angeles is the leader of the separatist Palawan state and his arrest would be essential for the surrender and reincorporation of the province into the Philippines. de los Angeles' trial will be held Wednesday next week_..."

Maybe it wasn't the truth, Carter thought, but at least she had a part in it, even if it was secret. It probably took some ass-kissing in the Philippine Intelligence Services before they allowed the KGB to mount an operation here. Maybe PIS was already planning a raid on the guy...

The phone rang. The incessant honking of horns in the noon traffic made hearing difficult for Carter. "What was that, Director?" she asked on the phone.

"KGB wants you two to go to Afghanistan," the Director replied. "Apparently, they were pleased by your actions last night. They have tracked down an arms dealer there that is rumored to sell equipment to the Taliban. I don't know all of the details yet, but both of your papers have already been arranged."

"Oh, man." She returned the phone to its cradle and walked to the store. "Bad news, Rosie. We're moving out again."

But she wasn't listening. She was focused on the news, and the images were of a charred piece of land, and lots of debris. It was like 9/11 all over again, that little field in Pennsylvania where that United jet had crashed, except this time that little field was in Afghanistan, half a world away. There were so much similarities, it was eerie. Nothing short of the supernatural could explain it.

Little did anyone know it, but this event would be the beginning of a chain reaction that will shake the very foundations of the new world order.

* * *

A/N: Tell me if this is good enough to proceed with, guys! - GR

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	3. Seventy Five

_August 3, 2011  
1245 Local time_

Seventy-five.

That was the number of people who were onboard Air Afghanistan Flight 200. All had died in the crash, although the medical authorities would later find out that some had survived the initial explosion and actually lived even after the plane plunged to the ground.

There was something in the scene of caskets laid in neat rows that made Rosie think of religion, or the possible lack thereof. Displaying the dead had been a long tradition in both Costa Luna and the Philippines, something she had learned from her brief time there that she had thought of asking whether the two countries had been related culturally. But she doubted that anyone would understand what she was talking about, because she had said it herself: Costa Luna was a small country that was barely known in the world stage. Even the coup had attracted only a small corner of some of the major news services of the planet.

Even their cover was confusing. They were two PPP agents on loan to the KGB, which meant Russian identities, who were undercover in Afghanistan as journalists.

Enough of that. It was time to get to work.

The nearest officer was below. The pips on his collar indicated that he was a captain, although Rosie couldn't say for sure. The pips looked like the ones on the captain of the Costa Luna military, but what if Afghanistan didn't use the same system?

"Excuse me, sir," she asked tentatively, "but can I ask a few questions?"

"Go ahead." The reply was made in perfect English.

"What can you say about the crash?"

"I believe we can all agree on one point," he said. "It's a big fuck-up. There is no good reason for bringing down a passenger jet. Blame the insurrectionists, but that is not the way they do things. They don't try to send a message this way. You can also blame some ultra-violent faction, but I have a feeling that whoever thought this up was not Afghan."

"How about the investigation? Is it going well?"

"I don't believe we'll learn much of what happened from the wreckage. The biggest pieces we have of the plane were the black boxes. Isn't it amazing how something as big as an airplane can be reduced to dust and ash?" he said more to himself than to Rosie.

"Thank you, Captain…"

"Ashabullah. Khaled Ashabullah."

Rosie nodded. "Okay, and how do you want me to cite you?"

"Call me 'a source in the investigative panel.' Can I tell you something off the record?"

Rosie pocketed her pencil. "Sure, Captain. What is it?"

"Do you see that man over there?" Ashabullah pointed at a man standing beside a coffin on the middle row. "That man is one of the best investigators under my command, and he won't be given a chance to solve this mystery because the captain of Air Afghanistan Flight 200 was his uncle."

"Personal involvement, Captain? I see."

"On a lighter note, we have a possible lead on who may have put the bomb on the plane. This place, eight o'clock, come if you want more information." The address on the slip of paper was somewhere in the northern suburbs of Kabul.

"Why are telling me all this, Captain?" Rosie asked Ashabullah.

"I'm the man who answers the people's questions," he replied. "It has been my job and always will be."

* * *

Whatever had happened at the apartment, it looked like that most of the action was already over. There were only two cruisers on the street facing the building, and they were already preparing to leave.

"What are we doing here?" asked Carter. "There's nothing left to see."

"That's the captain that I talked to earlier. Just give me five minutes to talk to him, find out what happened."

"What do you think could have possibly happened here?" But Rosie had already left the van. Carter sighed. No arguing with the princess today, she thought. She pointed at her watch. Rosie held up five fingers. Five minutes.

"Captain Ashabullah!"

"Ah, Ms. Yi." Ashabullah had ordered some of his men to look into the new reporters. "I regret to inform you that the raid had to be done because we heard that he had plans to go to Kazakhstan. We would have become bogged down in bureaucratic bullshit while he went on his way unimpeded."

"Who was he, by the way?"

"A baggage handler named Abubakar Karmal. Some of his coworkers say he was a mujahideen from the Soviet war."

"Okay. Can I go to his room?"

"Go ahead. It's 2010. If you find something there, call us." _Like she'll find anything good there_, he added to himself.

Rosie found the room quickly. She took her hairpin and inserted it into the keyhole. She was about to open it when Carter kicked it in. "You always have to go the hard way," she said.

"What are we supposed to look for here?"

"I don't know, anything that looks interesting."

"Carter! Take a look at this." Rosie was holding an old, tattered notebook. Lots of notes were peeking out of the pages. There were so many of them that she didn't notice one fall. Carter picked it up and unfolded it.

It was a design for a bomb.

* * *

"It doesn't look like much to me."

That was Colonel Pavel Anatoliyevich Kulyuchev's reaction upon seeing the bomb blueprint. "Okay, there's a Stinger missile in the assembly, but I don't see how it plays into the weapon."

"How can you not see it, Colonel?" asked Carter. "It's right in front of you. There's two wires leading from the main circuit to both the warhead and the missile fuel. Blowing up just one of them is deadly enough, how about both?"

"And the mainframe's a very simple but accurate one," added Rosie. "It's from your own Zhdanov-Yuriev Design Bureau. And if I've heard wrong, I believe they're correct to the microsecond."

"Now, based on what the investigative panels have uncovered, and with what _we_ have uncovered, this is what we think happened: just before Air Afghanistan 200 took off, Abubakar Karmal, the baggage handler, loaded the bomb into the plane. Approximately a hundred hours into the flight, the bomb detonates. Both the warhead and the fuel explode. The result is a big gaping hole on the side of the plane. Milliseconds after the explosion, the wing tears off, explaining why it ended up a few miles away from the crash site. One second after explosion, the airframe, exposed to the outside world, can't hold its structural integrity. It's Lockerbie all over again."

"But why?" asked Kulyuchev. It's the question that must be answered: why did Karmal do this? What does he have to gain by blowing up this jet?"

"Nothing," said Carter. "It's obvious, Colonel. The Stinger bomb is too advanced for him to build, let alone design."

"Whether he's a pawn or a lieutenant in a group is unknown yet," Rosie added. "But whoever they are, they certainly have access to the top minds in the world, and possibly some of them are in their fold."

"We'll never know until somebody talks," said Kulyuchev. "And unless these people don't believe in secrecy, that someone will be very hard to find."


	4. The Filter

A/N: This happens immediately after Seventy-five.

* * *

_August 3, 2011  
1600 Local time_

The man running through the Russian embassy didn't seem to mind that he was colliding with a person every three seconds or so. He was carrying a copy of the day's newspaper, along with a typed translation. All he offered those he bumped was an apologetic "Excuse me, comrade."

After passing through Carter and Rosie, he found himself in front of Colonel Kulyuchev. "Comrade Colonel," he said in Russian, "you should see this."

"What is it, Vanya?" he asked, snatching the paper from the man.

"It's FILTER, sir."

"Who?" asked Carter. The conversation was loud enough to be carried through the hallway.

"Someone named 'Filter,'" replied Rosie. "That's how the KGB names its agents. Sometimes it's something very far from they really are, to confuse America back during the Cold War." She took another copy of the newspaper and searched for the article. Its title read, "Trade Delegate Disappears."

"_Deputy Assistant to the Undersecretary of Trade Musa Muhamedow has disappeared from his house in western Kabul. Muhamedow was supposed to be with the ill-fated trade delegation to Kazakhstan which boarded Air Afghanistan Flight 200 until he was stricken with health problems. Authorities are already scouring the city and surrounding country for any signs of the official._"

"So this 'Filter' guy of theirs is this Muhamedow?" asked Carter. "That means that they have everything about Afghanistan's trade department. You have to appreciate it, they're good at this."

"You know," said Rosie, "I have seen some ministers in the Parliament that seem at either at ease or very troubled every time Russian delegates come."

"Colonel, I don't think there's any chance of turning up FILTER," Vanya told Kulyuchev.

"Don't say things like that in front of me again, Romanenko," the colonel scolded. "Until I see FILTER's dead body myself, I still hold hope for him."

* * *

A janitor in one of Kabul's many apartment buildings happened to be one of Vanya Romanenko's agents too, and having seen something of importance, requested an immediate meet.

"What is this matter that wound you up very much, At?" asked Romanenko. The town center was crowded enough for the Russian spy to barely hear his agent.

"I don't suppose you take me for a fool, Ivan," replied At al-Qadid. "I like to read the news too. Minister Muhamedow's disappearance is a very worrying matter, my friend, but let me tell you something that I haven't told anyone else yet. Muhamedow is in the building where I work."

Romanenko nearly choked in his drink. "What? Muhamedow is still in Kabul? Why haven't you told the authorities?"

"The man who owns the unit where I saw the minister is an influential man. Who do you think would the police believe, a mere janitor like me or someone with money?"

"You make a good point, At," said Vanya. "Why did you tell me this in the first place?"

"You are from Russian military. You have more chances in saving Minister Muhamedow than the police would ever care to try."

* * *

"Comrade Colonel! Comrade Colonel! I have information on FILTER's whereabouts."

"I told you we'll find him sooner or later, Vanya," said Kulyuchev. "Where did you obtain this?"

"Agent BRACKISH, Colonel."

"So he never left the city," the colonel muttered after Romanenko had finished his story. "This is interesting. But why would he be kidnapped? Does this have anything to do with him avoiding death in Air Afghanistan 200?"

"I cannot answer that, Colonel."

Kulyuchev nodded. "We may be able to use GUARDIAN yet."

* * *

"Hey, guys, sorry to intrude, but can I talk to you for a few minutes?"

Romanenko had found Carter and Rosie watching one of the translators doing his work. He had first thought that it would be a little hard to talk to them, but he found that they were easier to talk to than any of his most cooperative agents.

"Sure thing, Vanya," replied Rosie in Russian. "It's Vanya, right?"

"Why, yes. Ivan Fedorovich Romanenko."

"Guys, I'm still here," said Carter.

"Sorry about that," said Romanenko, switching to English. "But I have something to talk to you two about. Do you know Operation GUARDIAN?" Both women shook their heads. Romanenko opened a folder and read the contents.

"'In the event of an agent being uncovered by the enemy, or with the agent's life in danger, it is the right of the _rezident_ to immediately create an operation in which the agent shall be secured from enemy hands and returned safely to either the _rezidentura_ or the Motherland.' GUARDIAN is not just for Afghanistan, it's for every KGB _rezidentura_ in the world. GUARDIAN is the set of plans of how each _rezident_ would extract their agent. Colonel Kulyuchev is not known for originality, but I believe his plan should suffice for now." The rest of the day was spent poring over maps, plotting all possible routes to and from the apartment.

* * *

_August 4, 2011  
0430 Local time_

It wasn't much of a plan, but it had the best chance of working. Vanya would go into the apartment's lobby and distract the personnel while Carter and Rosie made their way to the third floor, where At al-Qadid claims he saw Musa Muhamedow. While every one of them had thoughts about the operation, nobody spoke up until the time came. Finally, the two made the go signal, and Vanya Romanenko strode towards the apartment.

"Showtime," muttered Carter. The two chambered a round into their guns and got out of their car. They had parked three blocks away in order to avert suspicion, but they couldn't help but feel watched. Upon reaching the lobby, they could see that Vanya had done a good job: there was nobody there. They walked into the stairwell.

"How many do you see?" asked Cater once they got to the third floor.

"There's someone watching the elevator shaft," replied Rosie. "Good call on that one." She checked the pocket flashlight in her pocket. It was smaller than the one that she used back in Palawan, but it was just as bright.

The guard watching the elevator turned around as he heard the door to the stairs squeak a little. He turned his attention to _that_ door, aiming his pistol there too. Suddenly, the two doors swung open. In the darkness, he could barely see two figures lying on the ground with guns aimed at _him_.

The flashlight was almost a physical force itself. Three million candles of light aimed at a single point, and it was as bright as the sun. The sensory overload caused the guard to drop his pistol and twitch as he fell to the ground.

Alerted by the sounds of their fallen comrade, the two men inside the apartment took hold of their weapons. But by then, the door had been shouldered open, and two figures were standing inside the frame. The one directly in front, holding an Uzi submachine gun, never had a chance to fire as Carter fired two rounds into his head. The one confronting Rosie didn't fare any better. Although armed with a W1200 shotgun, he had barely chambered the first round before he too was felled.

"Clear left."

"Clear right."

Musa Muhamedow was sitting in front of the room's only television, which was off at the moment. His mouth was agape as he watched two armed strangers approach him. The shock of seeing human beings dying had taken hold of him. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Comrade Muhamedow, we are the ones who rescuing you," replied Rosie.

"You killed them!"

"Maybe we can talk about that later, Minister," said Carter. "Right now, what's important is that we get you safely to the Russian embassy."

Just before the three had exited the lobby, Carter's cell phone rang. "Yes?"

"Possible hostiles coming in from the north," was the terse reply of Romanenko. "Will have to split for now. See you at work."

"What the hell?" But her train of thought was interrupted by the staccato burp of Uzis. She shoved Muhamedow into the car and jumped into the driver's seat.

"I know you're not Russians," said the minister as they drove aimlessly around Kabul.

"What makes you say that, _tovarisch_?" Carter asked innocently.

"Okay, you may speak their language, but I know Russians. I will admit, I was mujahideen back during their invasion of my country, so I know how they behave. You two are certainly more well-trained in the art of killing than the whole Red Army could ever hope to accomplish together in their multinational mush, as you have just proven a few minutes ago."

There was no hiding it now. "Yes, Minister. We are Americans, agents of the Princess Protection Program, the PPP, if you will. There's not much princesses to rescue in this new world order, so in order to keep working, we've rented ourselves to the various intelligence services of the world. In this instance, the two of us are working for the Committee for State Security, or KGB. Colonel Kulyuchev has noticed that you were in danger and so he put into effect the rescue mission that we've just done. I can't say accomplished yet, because we're not yet in the safety of the embassy. And as you may have noticed, we did not kill the man in front of the elevator."

Muhamedow's ranting stopped for a few seconds as he gave the matter considered thought. "Why?" he asked.

"There's no sense killing him, Minister. But the others were unfortunate enough to take hold of their weapons when we barged in. It's just a hard-wired reflex during military training. I'm sure you know what we're talking about, Minister."

The indirect drive to the embassy had taken a surprisingly fast fifteen minutes. Romanenko himself opened the gate, and took care of the debriefing of Agent FILTER.

* * *

A/N: I won't be able to post more this week becuase of school matters. So just sit back and enjoy! - GR

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	5. Striking A General Officer

A/N: Sorry this took so long, but I had exams. Anyway, feel free to tell me if I should keep this on. Reviews really appreciated now!

* * *

_August 5, 2011  
1337 Local time_

"Tell me again what we're doing in this town in the middle of nowhere."

Carter and Rosie were in the outskirts of Mazar. Their present situation had begun the day after their rescue of Minister Musa Muhamedow, who was now back at work but unable to tell the truth about what really happened. Word had gotten through to the KGB that there was about to be an attempt on the Afghan commander-in-chief of armed forces. Kulyuchev had wanted to pursue the matter with all assets available, but all he had were the two loaned American agents and a new addition to his staff, Yakov Petrovich Razov. Razov had all the makings of a good KGB officer, but only if weren't so difficult to control! But the colonel had no choice. He had to check on the General.

The meeting had been arranged as an innocent interview about the recent tragedy of Air Afghanistan Flight 200, in which the Afghan Armed Forces had played a vital part in examining vital pieces of evidence. Other topics that would be covered are the effects of a heightened state of readiness for the Armed Forces and how the public was perceived to react.

"Heads up," said Razov. "Here comes the General."

Sure enough, on the horizon, there was a single plume of dust marking the passage of a vehicle. Soon, it was near them, revealing a dusty Ford Crown Victoria. Two men stepped out of the car, and the two women began walking towards them.

They never heard the rockets until it was too late. All that they saw were two streaks of white before everything went up in flames.

"What the fuck?" said Razov. He turned around, searching for the source, until he found a single Mil Mi-35 "Hind" where the rockets could have come from. He reached for a radio hidden under his shirt and keyed the mouthpiece. "Base, this is TASKER. Base, this is TASKER."

"Base reads, TASKER. Authenticate Delta-Foxtrot."

"Lima-One. We have a Cold Front, repeat, we have a Cold Front."

"Say again, TASKER."

_Why did they have to get deaf now?_ "Base, we have a Cold Front! If in case you don't know what it means, it means that General Ali-fucking-Khalilullah is under-fucking-attack!"

Carter's ears were ringing. The last thing she remembered seeing was a red-tipped missile. It landed right in front of one of General Khalilullah's bodyguards. Only a crater was left where he had been, and the same was true for his companion. Her lungs hurt with every breath. She was sure there were broken bones, especially her ribs, where she thought she had hit the ground.

There was no sign of either Rosie or Razov. But the General's car still lay in front of her, as if waiting for her to board. Turning around, she glimpsed a Russian helicopter, a Hind by the looks of it, and there were two missile pods on its winglets. Each had a capacity of four missiles if she still remembered right, and it had fired only two. The Hind still had six shots left.

She got up shakily and limped towards the car. Khalilullah was still frozen stiff at the sight of his men vaporized in a single instant. But he should've been used to such things, Carter thought, because he was another mujahideen. But it was the least of her worries.

The keys were still in the ignition, and the engine was still running. She found the accelerator and pushed. The car started to move away just as the Hind fired another two missiles at it, lifting the trunk into the air.

Rosie felt someone lightly tapping her cheeks. Opening her eyes, she saw the face of Yakov Razov.

"You're awake," he said. "Good."

"What happened? Where's Cater?"

"Uh…" He then pointed with his PPSh-41.

"Yakov! Does that rifle still work?"

"Duh! Do you think I would keep this thing if it didn't work?"

_PPP Directive One: Protection of the objective is paramount to all other concerns._ Once reserved only for royalty, the PPP had expanded its directives to all government officials once the agency became international. The difference between life and death for the objective sometimes depended only on the shoulders of the agents who risk their lives to keep the balance of world power.

In this particular situation, General Ali Khalilullah was the Afghan Armed Forces' balance, neither too liberal nor conservative. With him, Afghanistan finally had its first effective fighting force. Take him out of the equation, and the Armed Forces would either collapse into a drunken misfit or turn into a destructive intimidating force.

"Yakov! How many rounds does that thing have?"

"Seventy-one. Why?"

"We'll have to distract the Hind from attacking Khalilullah." Rosie snatched the submachine gun from Razov. "You're driving."

"I just got my driver's license!"

"Last salvo," muttered Carter, jerking the car's steering wheel hard to the right. The Hind fired its last two rockets, which exploded harmlessly onto the desolate Afghan countryside.

"I think we're safe for now, General," she told Khalilullah.

"Forgotten it's an attack helicopter, haven't you?" The general had regained his composure. "You seem to not know about the gun on its belly."

"What?" Only then did Carter see the gun in question. "Hold on, sir!" The Ford waved around once more as she brought the vehicle into a zigzag course.

"Remember," said Razov, "left trigger is single shot, and right trigger's full-auto."

Rosie nodded, and then she lowered the window. The sand blown up by the front wheels blinded her a little, and then she was sitting on the windowsill. She aimed for a point before the helicopter and fired. A short burst of smoke came from the PPSh, and a line of tracers slammed into the Hind.

"Hey!" said Razov.

"Sorry," she said. "I got the two triggers mixed up. But they're not turning yet, right?"

"Nope, they're still bearing down on the General."

"Didn't you see any units when you were driving here?" Carter asked the General.

"There is that car near the town," he replied after a few seconds. "I don't know the frequency."

_Damn._ Carter quickly dialed the onboard radio to the Guard frequency. "What's your callsign?"

"Star Five."

Carter nodded then turned to the microphone. "All units in the vicinity, Star Five is under attack. Repeat, Star Five is under attack."

* * *

The car was an old GAZ-21, and the radio had been in use since the Second World War. Because of its bulk, the unit itself was in the back seat while the microphone and earphones were with the passenger.

"Did they just say Star Five?" asked the driver.

"Sure sounded like that to me."

"Star Five's General Khalilullah, isn't it?"

"_Holy shit!_" The driver pressed the brake to the floor as hard as he can. The two then jumped out of their vehicle, and the one on the radio went for the trunk and brought out a Stinger missile launcher.

"I see some movement on the horizon," said Razov. Rosie brought up his battered Russian binoculars and focused on the two figures. If the thing on one of them is a rocket, then Carter and Khalilullah are as good as dead…

The missile flew straight for the Hind, and despite its crew's efforts to evade, the missile hit them in the engine, and the Russian helicopter became a blazing fireball in the clear Afghan sky.


	6. Data, Data, Data

A/N: Chapter Six here! Read and review!

* * *

_August 6, 2011  
1819 Local time_

"I could so get discharged for this."

"You're happy to risk it, though," said Rosie. "How much do I owe you?"

"A hundred dollars."

"You run through my money faster than a vampire on an artery."

She slipped a green dollar bill into his hand as he opened the hangar. "Knock yourself out," he said. "Just make it quick."

Even in figurative death, the Mil Mi-35 still held a silent yet majestic beauty as it sat in the middle of the hangar, its curves and lines softly defined by the lights above. When it crashed, the tail boom was separated from the fuselage. The rocket pods had also been removed along with the machine gun, which were lying side by side on one corner. Most of the cockpit's glass windows were gone, shattered by the impact. The seatbelts were torn, showing where the Afghans cut them up to free the helicopter's dead crew.

Rosie spied a workbench full of motherboards, hard drives, and other computer innards she didn't want to know about. "What's all this stuff?" she asked.

"Some of the computer hardware we recovered from the crashed choppers were carted off here for tinkering," replied Ibrahim. Behind the Mi-35, one could see a Mil Mi-8 "Hip" and a UH-60 "Black Hawk."

"What are those two?" asked Rosie, pointing at two chips lying on a corner of the bench.

"We took them from the Mi-35's computer," Ibrahim replied. "Most Afghan Mils carry their threat and seeker programs in chips marked with Cyrillic letters, which identifies which company designed the programs. We ran this through the interface, and we came up with the Zhdanov-Yuriev Design Bureau. I'll admit this is the first time I've heard of that company, or design bureau, whatever the Russians call it over there. But it's a hell of an efficient program, I'll tell you that."

The monotonous hum of the air conditioning units in the hangar was broken by the ringing of a telephone. "You really have to go," Ibrahim told Rosie before running to pick up the call. Rosie took a look at the Afghan, making sure that his back was turned, before she picked up the microchips from the Hind and pocketing them.

* * *

"What's this?"

"Microchips from the Hind that chased the General," replied Rosie.

Carter picked up one of the chips and examined the Cyrillic writing. "I'll be damned," she muttered. "Zhdanov and Yuriev strikes again. You know, I've been looking into this company, and what I've uncovered is that these guys have just recently accepted a military contract with Russia's United Aircraft Company, which used to be Antonov, Tupolev, Ilyushin, MiG, and Yakovlev before the government merged all of their shares in those guys."

"Are you saying that whoever was after Khalilullah had access to high-tech weapons?" asked Rosie.

"Yeah, but I've never seen anything like this since Costa Luna. Have you phased out your air force's World-War-Two-era planes?"

"No, we still have our Yak-1s. But to return to our topic, Mi-35s are not something you just sell to people, right?"

"Exactly. But the question is how did they get it? Did they pose like some representative from an air force or something?"

Rosie produced a notebook and handed it to Carter. "You tell me."

She opened the notebook and read the contents. It was some sort of diary, and Rosie had written comments in red ink. Carter saw the word Russian written on many of the entries, all of them encircled in red. "Where did you get this?"

"Remember the notebook where we found the plans for the Stinger bomb? I took it, and what you're holding is the translated version."

"So somebody's giving this Russian intel which he then passes on to the hit men. We have a mole here, probably someone high-ranking."

"Doesn't necessarily have to be," said Rosie. "It could be a secretary, an aide, or even somebody who went into an office and spotted an open file."

"You don't think General Khalilullah had anything to do with this, do you?" asked Carter. "I mean, his being out to meet us?"

"There's no way to tell. Last time I heard, the below him was 'just okay' with his position. He didn't have any plans for climbing the ladder."

"Well, who knows?"

"You know, Carter, this thing is getting freakier by the minute. Afghanistan has just elected its most stable government, and with the crash of Air Afghanistan 200, one-fifth of that government is already with Allah. Minister Muhamedow was a real moderate, and when they didn't get him with the bomb, they kidnapped him. Now, Khalilullah was a moderate too, and only God knows what would happen to the army had he bought the farm earlier. I'm seeing another coup on the horizon."

Rosie's words weren't entirely groundless, because she had experienced it herself. The series of events leading to the coup in her kingdom was still clear in her mind, it could have happened just yesterday.

First, the death of the late moderate King Mauricio III from natural causes, which was never entirely proved by the medical authorities. Second, the steady retirement of the moderates in the Costa Luna parliament, whose positions were quickly claimed by radicals and extremists. And finally, the ascension of General Kane as Marshal of the Royal Armed Forces of Costa Luna. The result was a bloody civil war whose atrocity can be matched only by the Yugoslav Wars. One million people dead, three million injured, and almost everyone in the country displaced by the war.

Queen Rosalinda had seen this happen to her people, and she didn't want another nation to suffer the same fate. Thanks to another identity, she may just be able to do that.

* * *

Lavrenty Konstantinovich Timofeyenko was worried. He had not heard from his agent in the Russian embassy in days. Could he have been burned, his identity exposed, and locked up with no way to communicate with the outside world?

Timofeyenko spotted movement on the street below his hotel room window. Someone had left a rock there. Timofeyenko reached for his glasses and tried to find a telltale chalk mark that would tell him that Agent "Bolshoi" was compromised. There wasn't any.

Satisfied, Timofeyenko switched off his desk lamp three times, the signal that he had received the agent's message. He then reached for his cell phone and placed a call. If ever there was anyone tracking this call, they would find the receiving unit in an abandoned warehouse somewhere in the city of Sevastopol.

"Yes?" the voice at the other end asked. There was a hint of tiredness in his voice, since Kabul was two hours ahead of the man's residence.

"The General is alive," reported Timofeyenko in a flat tone.

"That's too bad," the man chuckled. "Our friend has been waiting for a promotion for months."

"It looks like that the help that a friend of a friend gave my men either didn't work or were not enough."

"Once again, the opposition has been underestimated."

"Yet you don't seem saddened by this setback, sir," said Timofeyenko.

"Of course I'm a little sad, Lavrenty, but who has cause to grieve when you have the fate of a country in your hands?"

"So these attacks are just the pieces to a bigger puzzle?"

"That I cannot tell you anymore. So long, Mr. Timofeyenko."

Timofeyenko stared at his cell phone as the dial tone began. Contrary to what was said, he knew about his superior's plans. But did he not trust his plan anymore? Timofeyenko couldn't say.


	7. Interrupted Journey

A/N: I've just looked around the PPP fanfic archive, and I've seen that there are some femslash stories. Just to tell you, but there's no femslash in this story, guys. Sorry.

* * *

_August 8, 2011  
1555 Local time_

"I hope you've enjoyed our drive."

"Yes, Mr. Kulyuchev, I have."

Colonel Kulyuchev was talking to Judge Alamein al-Wahlid, whose judicial district had been chosen by the government to try the case of Abubakar Karmal by lottery. Because of perceived security risks, the KGB _rezident_ had offered to accompany the judge on his journey to the courthouse.

"I hope I'm not intruding upon delicate matters," said the colonel.

"No, Mr. Kulyuchev, nothing of the sort."

They had come upon a part of the road leading to Mazar that wasn't frequently traveled for fear of the insurrectionists. Their driver had slowed the Ford Crown Victoria and began making the turns on the mountainside carefully. Unknown to all of them, a group of cold, calculating eyes were watching their careful progress. Armed with two German MG42 machine guns, they crews lined up their sights and pulled the trigger.

The hail of bullets that struck the car sounded like rivets popping. Kulyuchev immediately covered al-Wahlid's body with his, producing his Tokarev TT-33 pistol in the same movement. The passenger side guard had also brought up an Uzi submachine gun, and the driver was already trying to veer away from the shooters. But with the mountain on one side and a very high drop on the other, there was little room to maneuver.

"It sounds like machine gunfire," said al-Wahlid. "Why isn't it getting through?"

"We've placed Kevlar panels on the car's vulnerable spots," replied Kulyuchev. "It should hold for a while." Turning to the men in front, he said, "Nikita, Leonid, How are you two up front?"

"Not much we can do from here, Comrade Colonel," replied Nikita Kosmodemyansky.

"I see a town up front," said Leonid Podgorod. "I can get us there if only we weren't between the mountains and the cliffs!"

Finally, the car made it out of the gauntlet. But that wasn't the end of their troubles. Two groups of men with Russian RPG-7s were hiding out in the rooftops of the abandoned town, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

"What in the world—" A warhead exploded just in front of the car, almost making Podgorod crash. "We'll need more than ourselves to save our lives, Comrade Colonel!"

But Kulyuchev was already one step ahead of him. After pushing Judge al-Wahlid down on the ground, he reached for his cellphone and made a call.

* * *

"Mason."

"Ms. Mason? This is Colonel Kulyuchev, and my situation has become unhealthy. Please tell Vanya."

"What was that, Colonel?" But Kulyuchev had already hung up.

"I think I heard my name brought up," said Vanya Romanenko, entering the office. "What did the colonel say?"

"Wait a minute. How did you know that?"

"Communications," the KGB lieutenant replied matter-of-factly. "What did he say?"

"Something like his situation becoming unhealthy, I don't know. What does it mean?" asked Carter.

"Ah, that explains so much. To answer your question, I don't think I'm cleared to brief you about our code phrases." Then Romanenko went for the telephone and placed a call.

* * *

"Sir, I see lots of dust on the horizon."

The leader of the hitmen raised his binoculars and zoomed in. There, he could see the blocky shapes of Afghan BMP-1s. "Get rid of everything," he ordered, "but leave the spent casings. We can still send a message that way."

* * *

Timofeyenko rewound the tape of the attempted hit on Alamein al-Wahlid. One of his men had brought a video camera to film al-Wahlid's planned execution had they captured him. He then ejected the disk before opening a sealed brown envelope. Inside were the photocopies of three new additions to the Russian embassy.

The first was a rookie KGB agent, not somebody worth pursuing for him. The other two were more interesting, female freelance journalists from a respected news agency. He read the company's periodicals every once in a while, whenever he got tired of communist glorification in _Pravda_.

Returning the first file into the envelope, he then took a disk and inserted it into his computer. After five minutes, he took that disk out and placed it, along with everything in the envelope, into his briefcase. Once again, "Bolshoi" had delivered. He now had another person lined up in his sights: Ms. Felicidad Sison, also known as Carter Mason.


	8. Assassination Attempt

_August 10, 2011  
1702 Local time_

"Colonel, do you mind if I go out for a while?"

"Feel free, Carter," replied Kulyuchev. "Nobody said you can't go out."

The guard gave her a tired but attentive nod as she strode towards the gate. And then, she was inside the city of Kabul itself.

Carter saw a woman dressed in a burqa buy a newspaper from a newly erected stand. She was sure that during the days of the Taliban, the woman would have been immediately carted off to the public square and executed. The fact that she bought a paper in a burqa just emphasized the fact that the Afghans weren't aware that they were free yet.

Seeing her walk away eased Carter's tense body a little. She knew it was stupid to think that someone was out there trying to kill her, but she simply can't shake off the feeling. All of these attacks in Afghan soil, and all of them seemingly unconnected.

She shook it off and began to concentrate on walking. As a journalist, she had an off-time pass that allowed her to come and go out of the embassy as she pleased, on the condition that she returned before "lights out". This was actually Carter's first time out of the embassy for no purpose at all, so she was a little bit nervous.

She took off her coat; revealing a red long-sleeved shirt under a blue vest, a black miniskirt and knee-length socks in uniform boots. The light breeze felt cool to her, but then she felt a chill in her spine, something only felt when someone was looking at you. And then, reflected in the window of a van, was the woman in the burqa.

The assassin watched her objective as she walked. She knew she was in danger of being observed because of those windows—damned reflections!—but she was past the point of no return. She had to continue.

Carter knew she only had one chance at trying to trick the other woman. Good thing there were still many Russian trucks left here during the Soviet invasion.

The assassin was near her objective. It looked like that she hadn't seen her. But she suddenly threw her coat away and went to the other side of a rusting truck. The assassin quickly pulled out her suppressed pistol and followed. But her objective was not there.

Carter rounded back to the pavement. Her trick had worked beyond expectations. The woman was staring out at the street, fooled by her simple but effective ploy. To think that she had picked it up from _Patriot Games_…

_A trick!_, thought the assassin. Timofeyenko was right. Her prey was a very cunning woman. She scanned the street one more time before she gave up. She would have to report the failure, and she felt that Lavrenty wouldn't be pleased. She turned around—

And came face to face with her target.

Carter swung her fist, throwing off the woman's veil. The assassin tried to aim her pistol, but she grabbed her arm and slammed it on the truck. The gun fell to the ground. The fight continued for a few moments, until the assassin planted her knee into Carter's gut, sending the other woman into the ground. If she was to do it, it was now. Little did she know that she would never complete her mission.

A bright red bloodstain suddenly appeared on the blue cloth of her burqa, and she fell down in a heap. The shot had come from Rosie. "Are you okay, Carter?" she asked.

"Just fine," Carter replied. She scooted over to the assassin and lifted her up by the collar.

"Who sent you?"

The woman just smiled, and then a white froth escaped her lips. Her eyes became glazed, glassy. Her body relaxed, and she died.

Carter spied a thin piece of string from the woman's hand to her mouth. She pulled, and out came a tooth. A faint chemical scent emanated from the capsule.

"Cyanide," whispered Carter, tossing the tooth to Rosie. She was a little surprised at what she caught.

Nothing seemed connected here, but then she remembered that a jeep had passed by. She began to run.

"Carter, where are you going?" But she was already far away.

Her legs seemed disconnected from her brain, which was telling her to stop. She ran, faster than she had ever remembered. Her mind's eye was focused on the image of a gray jeep.

She finally stopped at an exit to a major highway. There were lots of vehicles there, making it impossible to spot an individual car. She remembered the car's license plate, but it was too far to read the plates from where she was standing. But she was sure at only one thing: it was a Russian plate.

* * *

Timofeyenko glanced at his rear-view mirror, looking for the woman chasing him. He was too far away to identify who it was, but knew it wasn't the assassin. He'd seen her death with his own eyes, not from the bullet but from the cyanide. He'd made it policy that his men carry a cyanide capsule around, to make sure that they wouldn't talk when they were caught. He'd never expected that he would see his most reliable asset die that horrible death.

Ordering that woman's assassination was a big mistake. He should have focused on advancing his employer's agents into important posts in the Afghan government. Instead, he had been taken over by revenge, and he paid for it with a trusted agent.

There was time to grieve for her, but it was not now. Timofeyenko returned to his driving and pushed the accelerator.

* * *

"Are you sure this is what happened?" asked Kulyuchev dubiously, looking up at Carter.

"What do you mean, I'm sure?!" Carter replied. "I was their target!"

"I'm not doubting that part, Carter, but what I'm talking about is what you say is this link with that breakaway Taliban faction. What makes you think that this is related with the guys that ambushed us?"

"Doesn't it make sense, Colonel? August 5, Judge al-Wahlid's convoy gets ambushed in Chahar Tut. You were there, and I helped to rescue you, the judge, Nikita, and Leonid. Don't tell me you've forgotten that."

"Yes, Carter, I haven't. But the point is, you have no proof that you were the target that time. Maybe being at the wrong place at the wrong time is getting to your nerves."

"This is not just nerves, Pavel." The colonel noted that Carter had used his name instead of his rank. Advance information from the Director had said that she was furious at that point.

"Okay, let's leave that part about me behind. First, let's talk about some things that didn't compute before. We've all been wondering how did the insurrectionists get their hands on airline schedules and be able to take out that Air Afghanistan plane. You could say they have a spy in the company, but they don't do that thing. They're not used to doing that.

"And then, the Khalilullah incident. We're still debating on who was the target, but we're pretty sure it's General Khalilullah. But the real question is, where did they get the Mil? They haven't flown aircraft before, right? And the weird thing was that the chopper was meant for the Afghan Air Force."

"That's all very serious. Are you going anywhere with this statements?"

_Am I going anywhere with these statements!,_ thought Carter. _Maybe Colonel __Kulyuchev was more stupid than I thought._ "Yes, _Comrade Colonel,_ I am going somewhere. Somebody has come in contact with the insurrectionists, someone well connected, and he gave them the offer of a lifetime. Now, they are indebted to him, but in exchange they have to do everything he tells them."

Kulyuchev just nodded. "That is noted, Ms. Mason. You may go."

As she stood up to head for the door, the colonel called her back. "Carter, I will try to forget your comments when I present the report."

"Yes, Comrade Colonel."

Carter went out of the colonel's office as fast as she can without running or attracting attention. She went for the personnel's quarters. She found her door unlocked. She didn't have to worry, because she knew who was waiting for her inside.

"I take it Kulyuchev blew you off," said Rosie.

"Blew me off? He practically swatted me away like I was a fly!"

"Maybe it's just not your day, Carter."

"Damn."


	9. Anastas Mamnoff

A/N: The longest chapter!(?) Just a word of warning, there's some shooting and gore here. Whether you think it's dark is up to you.

_

* * *

August 13, 2011  
0809 Local time_

"Not yet, Comrade Fedorova. It is still too risky."

"But the Chairman orders it, Comrade Kulyuchev. The man must be investigated."

The door to Kulyuchev's office opened, and the colonel stepped out with a woman. "Ladies, this is Colonel Ekaterina Fedorova, aide to Chairman Andropov." And who else should Colonel Fedorova be but the Director herself, neat and prim in her Red Army dress uniform, with various decorations on her chest, chief of them the blood red ribbon and the golden star of the Hero of the Soviet Union.

"She wants to talk to you two about special matters," said Kulyuchev. "I think I should leave."

"Ladies," said the Director, "now that we are quite alone, I think it is time to return to an important matter." She then handed Carter and Rosie pictures of a well-dressed businessman. "Anastas Mamnoff," she continued, "Russian arms dealer, responsible for bringing weapons to almost every paramilitary organization in the world. In fact, even legitimate armies have approached Mamnoff for military supplies."

"Sounds well-connected," said Carter.

"Your observation couldn't be more closer to the truth, Ms. Mason. Mr. Mamnoff is currently in Kandahar, in the new building of his most recent acquisition, Afghani Electronics. Your tickets have already been secured."

* * *

Their ride was an Afghan Air Force Antonov An-32, and it was a full flight, with lots of pallets of relief goods for the reconstruction of Kandahar. There was only enough room in the back for the two of them, and they also had a KGB agent with them on Kulyuchev's recommendation.

Rosie watched uneasily as the old Russian plane rocked back and forth with the rough winds, a result of the mountainous terrain they were currently passing through. Beside her, Carter was already fast asleep, as if the harsh rocking of the An-32 was some sort of mature lullaby. It always amazed Rosie how Carter was able to sleep through even the worst possible storm.

"First time on a plane in bad weather?" asked the KGB agent.

"I've been through worse," replied Rosie.

"Haven't we all? I think for your friend, the worst won't even bother her." The agent then fingered his weapon lightly. Aside from the standard-issue AK-47, he also had an obsolescent German MP-40 submachine gun, the very weapon that his ancestors had shown as one of the symbols of the hated Fascists that had invaded his country all those years before.

"Want to know how I got this?" The agent did not miss Rosie's curious glance. "The budget for the KGB is so tight these days, even our weapons can't breathe. So, of course, we had to make do. I picked this up from an old warehouse."

"I see. What was your name again?"

"Umbelievich."

* * *

The Antonov landed on Kandahar without incident, and two the PPP agents slipped out of the plane unobserved, along with their bodyguard Umbelievich. They stared around the airport, uncertain of what to do next.

"What did the Director say about our sleeper?" asked Carter.

"Only that he would be here, and that he would be noticeable."

They should have seen him immediately. The sleeper was in the usual Afghan wear, so that the only interesting thing about him was that he was standing beside a black, battered Citroen. He was holding up a sign that said "Kabul to Kandahar."

"You have got to be kidding," said Carter. The sign was obviously meant for the two of them. "Umbe, why don't you go enjoy Kandahar? We can take care of ourselves. I'm sure you only have little time left to take in Afghanistan."

"Actually, I've been posted here since the break-up of the Soviet Union. I've served twelve different _rezidents_. I think I still have time in my hands when it comes to tourism." Nevertheless, he turned for a door to the right and emerged in an Afghan Army uniform.

"Sometimes I think that the KGB is just an unrecognized PPP," muttered Rosie as the two of them headed for the man with the Citroen.

"Glad you two can make it on time," he said. "My name is Achmed, and I will assist with whatever it is you are supposed to do."

The trio climbed into his car, the two women sitting in the back. Achmed handed over another stack of folders. "All recent and updated information on Anastas Mamnoff," he said. "You know, I actually had him ride in my taxi the day before yesterday. He was a generous tipper. By the way, the last section is about your cover. It should provide interesting reading."

Achmed had no knowing that he was right upon that fact, although he wouldn't be around much longer to celebrate.

* * *

The new building of Afghani Electronics was anachronistic of the Kandahar suburb where it was located, an island of concrete in a sea of sun-baked clay. The sheer futurism of the structure so fascinated the locals that they were both awed and shocked at that Western extension in their own land.

"There it is," said Achmed, "Afghani Electronics. It was on the verge of Chapter 11 when Mamnoff came in and resurrected the poor bastard. Now they're employing about three to four thousand people, which is a huge percentage of Kandahar's working populace. This is as far as I can take you, ladies. I will, of course, wait outside until your return." He then brought the Citroen to a drifting stop before disappearing from view.

"What now?" asked Carter, staring at the bland, gray face of the building.

"What else?" replied Rosie. "Into the lion's den."

The receptionist was very enthusiastic in helping them once they had said the word "journalists," which had been their cover in Afghanistan ever since the beginning of the confusion. "I do need to remind you two, though," she added, "that Mr. Mamnoff insists on a maximum of ten minutes for every visitor. Absolutely insists it."

The ride to Mamnoff's office was quick. With only three floors, the elevator had had a few stops to go, and then they were ushered in to an anteroom.

"You must be the reporters from _Random News_," said the secretary. "Mr. Mamnoff is expecting you." She then opened the door, and in they went.

The office was strictly utilitarian, with none of the comfortable trappings expected of such men with wealth. Anastas Mamnoff was also a contradiction of the image that they had seen. Instead of a fearsome personality, he had the look of a cunning man hiding behind a calm exterior. And instead of an acrid cigar, he was smoking a Russian Trud, the _only_ cigarette brand during the days of the Soviet Union.

"Mr. Mamnoff, the reporters from _Random News_," said his secretary.

"Thank you, Sohaila. You may leave now." He then looked at Carter and Rosie. It was hard to believe that this man was a hardened arms dealer. "_Random News_," he said. "Your magazine certainly lives up to its name and motto. _The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth_. And about your articles; they couldn't be more random. That piece you wrote about the possibility of war for the Spratly Islands, it was almost a novel in itself. The combatants were well-matched; communist Vietnam and democratic Philippines, although it's actually more of a war between America and China. But that's not the reason why you're here, I presume?"

"Actually," replied Rosie, "we've come here because _Random News Magazine_ has chosen you as businessman of the year for your stunning revival of Afghani Electronics."

Mamnoff laughed. "Ah, yes. The very company we are standing on. Why don't you ladies take a seat? I can only talk business when I'm comfortable."

The interview went smoothly for eight minutes, until the topic shifted to Mamnoff's factories.

"How many factories do you own, Mr. Mamnoff?"

"A lot. They produce almost anything, from electronics to software. I even own a few armaments factories."

"Are you a licensed retailer?"

"Yes. I have production rights for the AK-47 and the AA-2 missile."

"How about explosives?"

"That I do not produce."

"Are you sure about that, Mr. Mamnoff?" asked Carter.

"What are you talking about?" Mamnoff was suddenly on guard.

"Are you certain that none of your factories produce explosives and such devices?"

"What in the world does that mean? I do not have a contract for such a thing!"

"I don't know, Mr. Mamnoff, but there is evidence that Air Afghanistan Flight 200 was bombed by an explosive of your own design."

"This is madness! Haven't you been watching the news? That crackpot baggage handler built that device all by himself! And, need I remind you, that I have hundreds of designers under my employment, and I do not tolerate such research in my facilities! Who are you people?" he asked in a low voice.

"Committee for State Security, Mr. Mamnoff. You are under investigation for the bombing of Air Afghanistan Flight 200."

Mamnoff realized that he was as good as dead. Despite the rumors, the KGB was still a feared organization by the Russian people, and they still had the ability to extract a confession from even the most innocent persons.

"What are you going to do? Shoot me? Frankly, I'm surprised that my secretary hasn't barged in to my office when I began shouting."

"Our colleague is taking care of her. Besides, I don't thin anyone will hear your screams."

Mamnoff was taped to his chair with duct tape. He was powerless to stop the KGB agents from accessing his computer. Luckily, he had planned ahead for such a thing.

"Damn!" said Rosie. "It needs a password."

"What's the password, Mr. Mamnoff?" asked Carter.

He had also planned ahead for his. He waited for the woman to cock her gun before he replied. "Vladimir Lenin."

"Vladimir Lenin? Is that it?"

"I'm in!" said Rosie. The two then began to scroll through pages of files, from business orders to vehicle blueprints to the mother lode itself: the designs for the notorious Stinger bomb. There was also another folder, but its contents were encrypted.

"Time," said Carter.

"Got it." Rosie removed a small flash drive she had inserted into Mamnoff's computer. As she walked to the door, Carter took Mamnoff's phone, dialed a number, and left the headset on the table.

"What was that for?"

"Later," said Carter. Then to Mamnoff, she said, "Thank you for your time." The arms dealer can only arch his eyebrows in response.

"Mr. Mamnoff is currently on the phone right now," she told his secretary as they went out of his office. "He asks that he not be disturbed until the call ends."

"How did it go?" asked Achmed, who had picked them up as soon as they got out of the building.

"Just fine."

"Good. What in the world?"

Their path was blocked by three jeeps bearing the seal of the city of Kandahar. Achmed got out of the car. "Don't worry, I'll handle this."

The two sides talked for about five minutes. Finally, Achmed nodded at something the officer said before turning back to his Citroen. He winked his right eye at the two, a signal that all was well.

Two streaks of crimson suddenly burst from his chest. Achmed's face was contorted in shock, pain, and disbelief at what happened to him, and then he fell facedown on the ground. Only then did Carter and Rosie realize that the police officer's features were more Slavic than Arab, and that he was holding a suppressed pistol. The officer began to walk towards the car, firing his gun in the process. A single bullet hole appeared on the Citroen's windshield.

"I don't think so!" shouted Carter. She removed her pistol's bulky suppressor, jumped into the driver's seat, placed the gun's barrel in the hole and fired. The officer's head was forced back by the impact, and a fountain of blood gushed from the wound. He was dead before he fell.

The Citroen quickly backed out, and then turned away from the jeeps, which quickly picked up the pursuit. The Citroen's top speed of eighty kilometers per hour was nothing compared to the UAZ-469's 120 kilometers per hour. Their only advantage was that Kandahar was full of narrow streets and tight corners, which the lighter Citroen negotiated easily. One of the jeeps miscalculated a turn and flew up a ramp, landing upside down in the process.

_One down_, thought Carter.

The chase brought them to the center of Kandahar, an area full of people. The Citroen made a drifting turn, causing the jeep behind it to crash into its rear. The third jeep rammed itself into a tree trying to avoid the pileup.

The driver of the second jeep moaned in pain as he watched a woman step out of the Citroen, gun in hand.

"For Achmed," said Carter, pumping two rounds into the man's chest. A faint trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth, and he died on the spot.

* * *

"It's just madness," she said later on the way back. "There's no good reason for them to kill Achmed. He was supposed to be just another person in Kandahar. How could they have known? Tell me, Rose!"

"Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," replied Rosie. "Anyway, I think we need to take a closer look at what we got from Mamnoff." She then inserted the flash drive into a laptop and retrieved the contents. She immediately went for the encrypted folder.

"There's a total of five encrypted files in here; namely _Nerushimy_, _Bezzavetno_, _Polkovnik_, _Bessmertnykh_, and _Bor'ba Zemlya_. The first two don't make sense when translated literally into English, but the last three are more logical operation names. _Colonel_, _Immortal_, and _Fighting Land_, one can only guess at what they really mean."

"They must be desperate to protect those things," said Carter. "Those were not the file extensions I remember seeing in Mamnoff's office."

The two of them had no idea of the importance of those files.


	10. Plots

Rosie stopped typing. The letter on the typewriter didn't seem authentic enough to her, but it would be enough for a grieving mother. She knew it sounded heartless, but what else can she say?

At least Achmed's mom would be adequately supported for life. She had signed her up for the Queen Cruz Fund, which provides monetary assistance to the families of the recipients of the Order of Queen Cruz, the highest civilian and military award in Costa Luna.

Rosie removed the letter from the typewriter and affixed Queen Rosalinda's signature. Forging Her Majesty's signature was easy, because, technically, it was her signature she was signing. Rosie then inserted the letter in an official-looking envelope with a typewritten address on the back.

The medal came next. The Order of Queen Cruz award was based on the old Order of Lenin award, down to the medal's components and its ribbon. The profile of Queen Cruz was stamped on a platinum circle surrounded by a ring of gold with the words _Reina Cruz_ on top. Its ribbon was made of only the finest cloth, and the red and yellow stripes from two very rare dyes found only in Costa Luna. This went into a carrying case of scarlet felt.

Rosie took a small box and placed both the letter and the medal inside. After the customary wrapping with brown paper, she then went for the post office, mailing the parcel. With that done, she had done a good job.

Achmed would now be remembered in the annals of Costa Luna history.

* * *

"I am faced with a problem, Vanya," said Kulyuchev. "I have two tickets to Hamburg, but I cannot decide on who to send."

"Why not the Americans?" replied Romanenko. "They seem to be a little restless. Maybe the change in scenery would be useful."

"Why, that's a good idea, Vanya!" said the colonel excitedly. "Once again, you've proven your skill with the solving of problems. Call the ladies, and then maybe we will see if this country _is_ the investment capital of Asia."

"No, Colonel, that would be the Philippines," Romanenko corrected his superior. "But Afghanistan _is_ a fast-growing market." The two then laughed about Kulyuchev's intentional mistake.

* * *

"Mr. Timofeyenko," said the hotel concierge, "there is someone here asking for you. His name is—"

"Send him up."

The man arrived a minute later, escorted by the concierge, who had the card key duplicates to every room in the hotel. He opened the door for the visitor and then left in a flourish.

"You called for me, Mr. Timofeyenko?" asked the visitor.

"Yes. You've been watching the news, I believe?"

"Yes, sir. The Afghan Trade Ministry and high-ranking members of Air Afghanistan are going to Hamburg to celebrate the opening the airline's new hub there. Then, after that, German investors will be coming with them on the flight home to secure about nine-hundred seventy-five million dollars' worth of investments. That amount could single-handedly rebuild the economy after the years of civil war and stagnation."

"Which is why it must not proceed," said Timofeyenko. "Our employer wants this country at its weakest when he takes over. Frankly, it's almost impossible to do with the American troops watching over the Afghans' backs, but he as plans for those capitalist pigs."

"Is that so, sir?"

"Yes. Operation _Nerushimy_ is designed to inflict a crippling blow on the Afghan economy. In fact, its real purpose is to make the people lose their trust in the capitalist system. Hopefully, this will force the people to overthrow their government, leaving behind a massive void that our employer will fill."

"An excellent plan, Mr. Timofeyenko."

"But, you must understand this. Operation _Nerushimy_ must begin with a sacrifice, and it is you who has been chosen to make the ultimate sacrifice."

"I am ready to give my life for communism."

"Exactly what I wanted to hear. Operation _Nerushimy_ begins right now. I am pleased to know that you are dedicated to the cause."

As the visitor headed for the door, Timofeyenko called him back. "You do know that if the operation fails, you must still make the sacrifice. What we have just talked about in here is high treason. Everything about _Nerushimy_ must remain in this room and go to our graves. I hope you understand this."

"As you say, Mr. Timofeyenko." The man stepped out of Timofeyenko's room and into the street. Already, he was planning for the ghastly deed known only as Operation _Nerushimy_.


	11. News From Hamburg

**RANDOM NEWS WEBSITE**

**Air Afghanistan Opens New Hub, German Investors Pour Money**

By Fe Sison & Lucy Yi

**HAMBURG, GERMANY** – Air Afghanistan officially opens its first European hub with Flight 607, from the city of Hamburg to London, England. Air Afghanistan is the first airline from the Islamic republic to serve a European city since the flag carrier Ariana Afghan Airlines. This also opened up Germany for Air Afghanistan Cargo, which would serve local cities with Russian Antonov An-14s. International service for cargo is due to begin next month with the purchase of longer-range aircraft.

All this would not be possible without the help of the Löwe-Wodarczyk Group, which provided most of the money for the construction of the new hub. Yet this is not the end of the road for them, for their investors are due to visit Afghanistan along with members of Air Afghanistan and Ministry of Trade of Afghanistan.

"There are lots of things to invest on in Afghanistan," said newly-appointed Trade Minister Musa Muhamedow. "And with the help of the Löwe-Wodarczyk Group, we are looking at the potential for tons of money to flow to my country."

Things are surely looking good for Afghanistan, who only a decade ago had been avoided by investors like the plague, is now the fastest-growing investment location in Asia, second only to the Philippines. Rumors abound that Löwe-Wodarczyk is planning to invest almost a billion dollars on various sectors of the country, which, according to Mr. Muhamedow, "would boost the economy by almost epic proportions."

_**Copyright** 2007-2011 Random News Website. Random News is a registered trademark of the Far Out! Company. All rights reserved._


	12. The Bomb

A/N: Sorry for the delay. School matters and writer's block. I'll try a more consistent schedule later. Read and review!

* * *

"I think that went well," said Rosie. She, along with the rest of the press corps, was placing her bag into the overhead luggage rack of the Air Afghanistan Boeing 777. As a general rule of thumb, journalists were usually seated in the back of the plane while the VIPs occupied the front. In this case, the Trade Ministry delegates and influential members of the Löwe-Wodarczyk Group were relaxing in first class, the rest of the German investors were seated comfortably in business class, while the press and the other passengers sweated it out in economy class.

"Of course it went well," replied Carter. "It's often on the way home that accidents happen. Wake me up when we land."

Rosie shrugged and returned to her laptop. The five encrypted files were still up on the screen, and she had been wondering if there was a way to break the code. She double-clicked the first file—

And out popped half-a-dozen icons on the screen.

Rosie was surprised. This was a new kind of encryption system she was up against, something that possibly opened up at only a certain time. She proceeded cautiously. What if this was a cleverly disguised virus? What if these files were just nothing? What if, what if? She opened the first document.

It was the Stinger bomb schematic. Rosie relaxed, but only a little bit. So Mamnoff was really involved in something evil, all right, but what?

The second document was a photograph of a Boeing 777. Handmade notations cluttered the picture. The writing was too small to read, even with the zoom feature. But that was just the beginning. The rest of the documents were objectives on how the bombing of the plane must proceed. All of them were written by a single author: W. D. _Was it a pseudonym?_ she asked herself. _Or the person's real name?_

Rosie was suddenly struck with a feeling of helplessness. She knew what was about to happen, yet she couldn't do anything about it. The plane could blow up any minute, and with it the hopes of many foreign investors. _Whoever this W. D. guy is_, she told herself, _he must be sick_.

She slowly reached for her bag and placed it on her lap. The gun inside felt heavy. She checked her watch. Quarter to one. They would be over the Ukraine by that time.

Behind her, in the last row, the man checked his watch too. Timing was of the essence in this operation. This time, no evidence must be left behind. It should be as if the plane simply vanished into thin air. A single second could mean the difference between vanishing into the Black Sea and landing on the Crimea.

His decision was made. In half an hour, Air Afghanistan Flight 552 would fly into oblivion.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. If you would kindly look out of your windows, you will see the wonderful waters of the Black Sea, whose beaches are very popular this time of the year. The piece of land you can see on the left side of the plane is the Crimean Peninsula, home to some of Ukraine's finest cities…"

The man smiled to himself. Everyone onboard except him knew the events that were about to happen. He checked his watch again. Time to do the job.

Suddenly, a man walked into economy class. The man recognized his as the _Bundesluftmarschall_, or Federal Air Marshal. Ever since the September 11 attacks, all airlines were required to have air marshals onboard their aircraft. The man knew that German marshals were deadly efficient when fighting terrorism, but only if they knew that there would be a crime. And he wouldn't give them that luxury. He reached for his bag under the seat in front of him and slowly retrieved his pistol.

Time slowed down for the man. His eyes locked on to the aiming reticule as soon as it entered his peripheral vision. The marshal, immediately recognizing the distinct shape of a suppressed pistol, began to reach for his own weapon. And then the man pulled back the hammer and fired.

The bullet entered the marshal's shoulder, and he shouted in pain. The man hoped that it would distract the people while he set the bomb's timer secretly in the cargo hold.

He was distracted by three loud noises. His first thought was that the marshal had managed to fire back at him. But, after thinking it over, he found the angle to be completely erroneous. There was only one rational explanation for this: there was another air marshal onboard. And then he saw her, on the left side of the second row. He fired back three rounds in response.

Rosie knew that she was seriously outmatched. The enemy had a USP .45, which had a twelve-round magazine, compared to her Colt M1911, with only seven rounds. And she had just wasted three of those rounds. The only good news was that both of them were using subsonic rounds, or else they would have already torn the plane apart.

The man tried to open a hatch leading to the cargo hold and watch the aisle at the same time. It was easier said than done. Finally, he cracked open the hatch and descended into the dark depths.

"_Was ist dat_?" asked a passenger. What was that?

"A probable hijacker," replied Rosie. "The marshal needs help. Is there anyone here with medical experience?"

"I can help," replied the passenger. "I'm a doctor."

"Any experience with gunshot wounds?"

"You're talking to a former field surgeon of the _Bundeswehr_," he replied, lifting the marshal to an empty seat. "I think I can manage."

"Where do you think did he go?" asked Carter.

"The cargo hatch in the back. It's the only place where he has access to the hold without the risk of discovery."

The cargo hold was dark, with only a few emergency lights to break the gloom. There was a small passageway between the rows of cargo boxes. There wasn't an immediately obvious place for someone to plant a bomb.

Three shots rang out. "Accept our fates," said the man. "Let us all go out of this world honorably and allow me to continue my work."

"What about the others?" asked Carter.

"Sacrifices for the Radiant Future."

"What's your name?"

"My name is irrelevant, but my cause is not." He then fired three shots at random before making a break for it. Behind him, shots rang out. He felt a vibration in his pocket.

"What is your current status?" asked the voice at the other end. It sounded hollow, distant.

"I am near the objective, but I am being followed."

"Are they a threat?"

"Yes, sir, but I have lost them for the time being. The package is ready. Farewell."

The man opened a black case marked "diplomatic papers" and activated the unit. He punched in a few numbers and then closed the case. But that was the easy part. Now he had to defend the case. The bomb had only one weakness, but once exploited, the bomb would become impotent. He ejected the gun's clip and inserted a full one.

"Did you see him?"

"I'm lucky just to see myself in this light."

The barrel of a Russian pistol glinted in the weak light provided by the wire-mesh lamps in the cargo hold. The man fired. The pistol pulled back, and then another gun returned fire. Three shots pierced the case, with the third going passing through the plastic and foam and hitting the man's hip.

Two women stepped out into the light. The man held up his arms and said, "Don't shoot, don't shoot," while reaching for a thin string in his pocket. Suddenly, the one with the Russian pistol reached for his mouth.

"What the f—" And then she released her grip, her hand clutching a bloody tooth, along with the cyanide pill. _So much for the ultimate sacrifice_, he thought.

"Check the case," the woman told her partner.

Opening the plastic box, they saw a neat bullet hole through the timer's liquid crystal display. The time was stuck at one second.

"Are we lucky or what?"


	13. This Is Not Over

"William Do," said Carter. "Sounds like our suspect, all right."

She held up Do's passport beside the man's face. The picture matched.

Do knew he was as good as dead. The Afghan Secret Service was better at acquiring information than even the KGB. Operation _Nerushimy_ had failed spectacularly, and he can only depend on his boss to save what was left of his dignity. He winced at the wound on his left thigh, healed by Dr. Alfred Mueller, _Bundeswehr_ surgeon. What walking he had to do would be painful.

The German air marshal finished tying his hands with plastic handcuffs, and then brought his working arm into Do's gut. "That's for shooting my shoulder, asshole," he told the suicide bomber.

Do clutched his stomach. _I guess I deserved that_, he thought.

"How long before we reach Kabul?" Carter asked the marshal.

"About a half-hour, maybe less," replied the German.

* * *

The Boeing jet flew on to its destination undisturbed, most of the passengers unaware how close to death they had come. They disembarked, noting with a little curiosity the dark blue truck sitting on the tarmac.

Kulyuchev greeted the handcuffed Do. "You're in for a lot of trouble, boy," he told him. After that, he shook hands with the German air marshal. "Colonel Pavel Kulyuchev," he introduced himself.

"Lieutenant Thilo von Keeling, _Bundesluftmarschall_."

"Good job taking him down."

"Actually, he shot me before I can do a thing, Mr. Kulyuchev. Those two are the ones responsible." Keeling then pointed at Carter and Rosie.

"Of course," muttered Kulyuchev. "Get him into the truck," he told the Afghan policemen that had surrounded the prisoner. While they brought him into their vehicle, the Russian colonel went for the two.

"I guess we can say it's over now," he said. "Let the Aviation Security Command take care of him."

Suddenly, a loud explosion rocked the airport. The dark blue AVSECOM truck burst into a huge fireball before settling back on to the ground. Firefighters, police officers, and soldiers began running towards the flaming wreckage but were unable to do anything for those inside.

Rosie's cellphone rang. She picked it up and answered, "Hello?"

"I hope I've made my point."

She looked up, grabbing Carter and Kulyuchev's attention. "Who is this?" she asked.

"You need not know my name," replied the unknown caller. "What you do need to know is that you may have stopped my man today, but by the end of the year, people would die, and there is nothing you can do about it. This is the last time that I should hear of you. Remember that!" The call ended at that.

"What did he say?" Carter and Kulyuchev asked at the same time. Both also glared at the other.

"It's not over," Rosie replied.

"There won't be much to find out now," said Kulyuchev. "As you've just seen, our best source just burnt himself to death."

"I don't think so, Colonel," said Carter. "Thilo, bring Mr. Do out."

Keeling waved his hand, and the real William Do stepped out, still cuffed but otherwise none the worse for wear. Kulyuchev stared at Carter, dumbfounded.

"Colonel, I would suggest that you and Thilo bring him in yourself. It would be the safest way for all of you."

The colonel nodded and led the bomber into his embassy car, along with Keeling. As the Ford zoomed out of the airport, Rosie said, "Good call on that one."

"Well, him talking in his sleep about redemption and bombs did help a little." She shrugged off the comment. "What's next for us?"

Little did they know that that question would soon lead them through more places than ever before the path turned back into Afghanistan. But for now, they were content to take one step at a time.


	14. A Development

"_Isn't it amazing how something like an airplane can be reduced to dust and ashes?_"

"_You're not Russians._"

"_General Ali-fucking-Khalilullah is under-fucking-attack!_"

"_We have a mole._"

"_My situation has become unhealthy._"

"_Who sent you?_"

"_Not yet, Comrade Fedorova. It is still too risky._"

"_My name is irrelevant, but my cause is not._"

"_This is the last time I should hear of you. Remember that!_"

Rosie woke up. She was back in the Aeroflot 747 bound for Moscow, miles away from Afghanistan. She couldn't remember the last time she had dreamed, but this was more of a recollection of events for her. From the downing of Air Afghanistan 200 to the attempted bombing of Air Afghanistan 552, from rescuing Musa Muhamedow to questioning Anastas Mamnoff, all those had happened within the span of two weeks. There was little time to catch their breath during all of those episodes.

The American-made airliner was barely a third full, leaving enough room for a whole Spetsnaz squad to keep watch on William Do. Upon reaching their destination, he would be given a comfortable cell in the Lubyanka, right across the street from 2 Dzerzhinsky Square, although there would be no telling how the KGB would treat him to get the necessary information.

Although communism has died in Russia, they would gladly support a communist revolution, mostly from the arms sales sure to come from such an event. Even then, the military command preferred a revolt of the masses against the elite as opposed to a carefully orchestrated and secret takeover, most probably because more people meant more buyers. It was one of the greatest ironies in history, capitalism at work in communism's armed forces.

The jumbo jet landed in Moscow without incident. The Spetsnaz team led Do towards a black truck. As Carter and Rosie turned to follow, a man intercepted them.

"Private Abramov, Committee for State Security," he said. "I will be your escort for today. Follow me, please."

"You may want to pick up the pace," he said over his shoulder. "We must pass through Red Square before the Red Army arrives for their October Revolution parade practices. It's a complete logistical nightmare."

The three boarded an old GAZ-24 with KGB markings, which Abramov quickly started and drove towards 2 Dzerzhinsky Square. They finished the journey just behind the van with the Spetsnaz troops.

"Comrade Colonel, the people you've asked for are here," said Abramov as soon as they reached what had to be the Chairman's office.

"Thank you, Comrade Abramov," replied Colonel Fedorova. "Send them in."

The private opened the door. "This is as far as I can take you," he said. "Nobody can enter the Chairman's office unless by direct appointment."

"Comrade Chairman, they're here," said Fedorova on the phone.

"_Spasiba_, Ekaterina. Do let them in."

She headed for a seemingly innocent closet door and unlocked it. What lay beyond was an astonishing sight.

The walls were painted stark white, matching the color of the snow already falling on Moscow. The desk was made of a fine-grained wood, as were the chairs.

Chairman Timofey Andropov sat in a high-backed, revolving leather chair. He bore a striking resemblance to his namesake and predecessor Yuri Andropov, despite the two never being related to each other.

"Ms. Mason, Ms. Gonzalez, it is a pleasure meeting you," he said, shaking their hands and waving for them to take a seat. "That number you did in Air Afghanistan 552, I really liked it. There is no doubt that the consequences would be disastrous had you not stopped that suicide bomber in time. And there were also the jobs you did with Pasha Kulyuchev and his men back in Kabul."

"Well, it's not really all by us…"

"We've had a lot of help that time…"

"We can all sip our vodka and talk about it later," said Andropov, holding up a hand. "But I have a more important matter in my hands."

"My men in Chechnya have just passed word of insurrectionist rumblings within the country. As you may know, fighting there isn't really the Red Army's strong suit, so I was thinking of asking you two if you can go down there and, maybe, check it out?"

"Well, we are KGB, right, Mr. Andropov?" asked Carter.

"To tell you the truth, I haven't really thought of it that way," he admitted. "It was Ekaterina's idea to borrow you from the PPP, but it's a move I'm glad to say I don't regret."

"Just as simple as that, Comrade Chairman? Go into Chechnya, check it out, and then get out?"

"That's the plan."

"Well, Mr. Andropov, how could we not accept? We're in."

"Then it's settled. Thank you, ladies. I'll see if I can arrange something for your transportation."

"Looks like you ladies are off to another faraway place," said the Director, still under the guise of Colonel Fedorova, as they got out of Andropov's office.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Carter. "Chechnya, actually."

"Well, then, let me give you something to help." She tore off a sheet from a pad of note paper. "These are the names of some of my best agents there. Below are their cellular numbers. If you two find anything of interest, just pass it on to them and they'll take care of it."


	15. Act Two: Chechnya

A/N: Two chapters in two days! And now, presenting, Act Two of Fighting Land!

* * *

It was three in the morning when the Aeroflot flight to Groznyy finally landed. By then, Carter and Rosie were thoroughly tired enough to nearly fall asleep while walking.

"A midnight flight in a crowded and noisy turboprop," muttered Carter. "Looks like the Chairman was not as omnipotent as he had been back during the Soviet era."

"How in the world did you know that it was crowded and noisy?"

"I've got a sixth sense, Rose."

There was a man waiting for them in the arrival area, holding a placard bearing their cover names. But it was the man holding it that grabbed their attention.

"How did you get there earlier?" Carter asked Abramov.

"Being a member of the KGB has some benefits. Colonel Fedorova recommended for me to tag along with you two, but I preferred a little more speed." He pointed at a MiG-29 parked on the tarmac.

His car was another GAZ-24, this time without any markings at all. "I'll take you up to the Army's headquarters here. Our KGB personnel reside with them."

The ride through town was smooth, but as he began to travel down the Groznyy's main road, he suddenly applied the brakes. "Oh, shit," he muttered. Five BMP-1 troop carriers were blocking his path.

Abramov got out of the car and walked towards a soldier in field dress. After having a brief chat, he returned to the car. "There's some kind of demonstration in front of the Chechen War Memorial," he told the girls. "Third Shock Army's sealed off the road until it's over. Can you help me push the car to the side of the road?"

After finishing the task, the three walked towards the congregation of Russian soldiers. "Who are those two guys on the stage?" asked Carter.

"Lavrenty Yakovlev and Abdullah Reshetov," replied Abramov. "Yakovlev's a representative in the Russian parliament, he's been trying to push Adzhitekova to recognize that island off the coast of Morocco; I think it was Bedoan Island or something like that. Reshetov's the leader of the Islamic minority here, and also a prominent member of the local Communist Party."

"Oh, I've heard about it," said Rosie. "The Moroccan king wasn't all that pleased to let go of Bedoan Island, but the war had become unpopular, quite like Vietnam had been thirty years ago."

It wasn't the only reason why Bedoan Island was eventually given independence. The nation was not a socialist state in the sense of the former Soviet Union, more of a Communist Party-led state. Already, political commentators have begun calling the resulting ideology "Bedoanism."

"It sounds like they're saying something," said Carter.

"Don't look at me," replied Abramov. "I know nothing of the Arabic language."

Naturally, her gaze turned towards Rosie. "Fine," the princess-turned-spy muttered, taking a notepad and pen. "I don't guarantee full accuracy, mind you."

Half an hour later, Reshetov had finished his speech, to the apparent approval of the protesters. Rosie's translation bore only a few mistakes, chief of them misunderstood words.

"'My brothers and sisters, let us support the People's Republic of Bedoan Island, and save the Homeland from the capitalist infidels! For too long, we have suffered under despots, but now we have a socialist Homeland to call our own! I congratulate our brothers-in-arms for keeping Bedoan Island free and safe. But now, I must return to the matter at hand: the establishment of our home.'"

"'The People's Republic of Bedoan Island is a legitimate nation-state with a firm government, an iron-clad constitution, and a high degree of respectability. If it weren't for our President, we would still be under the heavy hand of the imperialists! For too long, we have been denied a home, and now our opportunity has come! All of us here have the blood of the Bedoans flowing in our veins, and that shall be our unifying force! We shall fight as fiercely as the Bedoans fought against the imperialists, and soon our Homeland will be recognized and respected!'"

"'But all this would be impossible without you, my brothers and sisters! We are united with a common goal, and we shall crush anyone who dares to stand in the way! Our Homeland is the only thing we have left in this world besides ourselves, my brothers and sisters, and we shall fight for it, even if it needs our lives to succeed in the ultimate goal!'"

"'And so, my brothers and sisters, go! Sow the seeds of socialism and prepare for a very bountiful harvest! Socialism is the way to Allah! _Communism_ is the way to Allah! _Allah akhbar!_'"

"I can see some weapons in the crowd," said Carter. "Do you think they would use them?"

"I doubt it, unless they're suicidal enough to incur the wrath of the Red Army," replied Abramov. "No, it's highly improbable that they will use them."

News crews from Russia's main television channels were already flocking the scene, causing the protesters to increase the tempo of their chanting. Thanks to today's interactive world, any message conveyed by video can reach even the farthest corners of the planet within the span of minutes. For the protesters, the intended effect was to increase awareness on the effects of the legal recognition of Bedoan Island.

Suddenly, the crowd began to scatter. "_Militantiy! Militantiy!_" they shouted.

"What are they talking about?" asked Carter.

"Militants."

"What in the world do you mean by militants?—"

The first shots took everyone by surprise. Even the supposedly well-trained Red Army soldiers, of which some were quickly felled by the attackers. One of the wounded soldiers was rushed by his comrade towards Abramov's car. "Comrade, do you mind if I use your car to bring Comrade Zhemnev to the hospital?" he asked.

"No, I can take him there myself if you want," the private replied.

The shooting suddenly ceased. The militants had vanished as swiftly as they had appeared. But some of their number had been left behind, some wounded, others those trying to surrender. The soldiers quickly surrounded them and arrested them. Whatever the cause of the events, only one effect was clear.

It was going to be a very long day.


	16. Spread The News

The Capitol bore no signs of the gunfight that had ensued in front of it just three hours ago, which, for the man climbing the steps to the entrance of the building, never happened. He was the private secretary to the Governor of Chechnya, who wouldn't wake up and begin his work until nine in the morning. His job was to give the governor the important stuff while he dealt with the lesser worries.

He found a relatively light workload waiting for him on his desk. He sifted through them quickly, placing two documents on the tray meant for the governor. The secretary then found out that he was thirsty, and he went to the coffee machine. He turned on the television while waiting for his brew.

The first news item he caught was a minor drug bust in the western end of Groznyy. Members of the Committee for State Security had made the bust and arrested three drug dealers, two locals and a foreigner. A female commissar from the navy, a _zampolit_, explained to the reporters how they had managed to accumulate enough photographic evidence to convict the men, and how they could be facing either seventy years or death.

The second item was a live feed. The man speaking was the commander-in-chief of the Russian forces on Chechnya, General Yaroslav Mikhailovich Yevin. What followed would shake the secretary until his dying day. He forgot all about his coffee and darted for the telephone.

Three miles away, Governor Dazdrapertrak Dazdrapertrakovich Tarenin picked up the phone after the third ring. "Yes?"

"Uh, Comrade Governor, this is, uh, Tarkovsky, your private secretary."

"Ah, Alexei." The kid was the son of a member of the local Politburo, and had a real future ahead of him, unlike others like him. He had real respect for the governor, and knew not to interrupt Tarenin unless it was a matter of national security. "What is it?"

"Turn on your television, Comrade Governor. The answer is there."

It felt strange, taking orders from your secretary, but nevertheless Tarenin did exactly what he was told. The fear in Alexei's voice was genuine enough to attract the governor's attention.

General Yaroslav Yevin has just announced the arrest of fifteen men responsible for the shootout in front of the Capitol, something Tarkovsky hadn't mentioned to his boss. The incident occurred during a demonstration by Bedoan Island supporters advocating for recognition. Apparently, they did not know the suspects because they ran away from them, yet the suspects claim they were from the Red Army of Bedoan.

The next scene was of the suspects' weapons laid out on a table. Twelve M16s, three G36s, three M203 grenade launchers and old German "potato masher" grenades were visible, along with their magazines. All these were not readily available to the civilian populace, which meant that they were getting these through back channels, probably arms dealers or some entrepreneur in the army.

The militants, as they were called, had three to seven of their number dead, while the Russians only had one injured, and he was well on the way to recovery in the Vasily Arbyk Memorial Hospital. A lieutenant answered all of the reporters' questions, most of them with, "We will inform you all as soon as we receive the information." _Leave it to the Army to say no comment artfully_, thought the governor.

Tarenin then realized that his wife was awake. She watched the news with fear in her eyes. "Dazdrapertrak, what's happening?"

"It means Russian-Bedoan relations could be down the drain." _Unless their President renounces this Red Army of theirs_. "I may have to go to work earlier than I planned."

"I know nothing about politics, so I'll leave all of this to you. Do you absolutely have to do this, _Traktora_?"

Tarenin loved the way his wife spoke his nickname. He felt very strong and manly every time she said it in her own peculiar way. "Don't worry, Agripina, I've handled way worse."

The drive to the Capitol was quiet, if you can call being hounded by reporters quiet. His driver, a soldier of the Third Shock Army, managed to keep the press away from his superior by sheer brute force.

His secretary Alexei Tarkovsky greeted him when he got out. "I've managed to divert all calls to the public relations people, Comrade Governor," he said. "They may be able to hold out until noon. Do you have any orders?"

"What orders, Alexei? Have I become a general during my brief absence?"

"Oh, nothing of the sort, Comrade Governor. What I am asking you about is, do you want something?"

"Now that you ask me, yes, do try to bring Comrade Yevin here if possible."

"As you say, Comrade Governor." Tarkovsky rushed to his private telephone and called Army Headquarters.

Within minutes, General Yaroslav Yevin was inside the Chechen Capitol, standing right in front of the governor. "You asked for me, Governor Tarenin?"

"Yes, Yaroslav. Do kindly sit down. Oh, by the way, you may want to hang your cap by that peg over there."

After the general was comfortably seated, Tarenin spoke. "Why did you announce the existence of this so-called Red Army of Bedoan on national television?"

"Well, it was the only logical choice, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it may be the only choice, but think about all of those people out there! All they had wanted for years is peace, and now you've destroyed their comfortable little worlds! Do you know how hard it is to lead a disheartened land? Let's see, no, because the Red Army has become a bunch of pampered boys, much like the tsarist princes of old!"

"Hey, you don't see me say anything wrong about how you lead Chechnya!" Yevin retorted. "I leave that to President Adzhitekova and the Politburo. But, remember this, Dazdrapertrak, I may be born in Chechnya, I may not like our new political structure, but you _never_ insult my men!"

"You say that just because they kiss your ass more times than I care to count! But do you know what they say when your back is turned?"

"I don't care about things like that! If they can fight well, then that's all I want from them!"

"Aha! Leading our young men to certain death in the valleys of the insurrectionists while you sip vodka in the comfort of your own dacha!"

"How about you? Jerking off while your government bickers about your policies and leaving Chechnya to stagnate!"

"Knock it off, comrades!" shouted Tarkovsky, moving between the two. "All of this quarreling is doing nothing! For once, comrades, forget your old differences and work together!"

Tarenin was still seething, but he knew Tarkovsky was right. "Very well, Alexei. A cool head prevails over a hot one. Yaroslav, what do you suggest we do?"

"My men are already interrogating some of the prisoners," the general replied between his teeth. "You can set up an investigative committee."

"You heard the man, Alexei. Call for an emergency meeting in Parliament." The general and the governor glared at each other as Yevin turned to leave.

"Bring me some coffee, Alexei. Now!" The day had gone badly for Tarenin. He had no idea that that was also the opinion of the rest of the country.


	17. Introductions

A/N: I've got a few guys in my mind's eye playing out some of the parts I've been writing about. See if you can spot the subtle hints!

* * *

"I assume that the meeting with the governor went well."

Yevin groaned. He had not expected this particular topic to crop up today, especially among the people with him. They were his inner circle of advisers, men he could trust to deliver calm decisions and opinions even under the face of enemy fire.

"I can safely say it is best left forgotten," he replied.

"Yes, Tarenin's private secretary told me all about it," replied Major General Boris Churbanov. "He's a fine young man, Alexei. It came up when he visited my daughter, with whom he has a somewhat romantic relationship."

"Congratulations on that, Boris," said Yevin, clicking their glasses of vodka for a toast. "Do join in, my young comrades!" he told the others.

"Now, I have promised Tarenin that I will look into the 'militant affair' with all assets," he said after downing his vodka. "Lev, Vyacheslav, what's your say on this?"

"We have mobilized all men under our direct command," replied Lieutenant Lev Arigov. "Since it's our job to train the Groznyy Militia, we've seen this as an excellent opportunity to train them in what I call 'intelligence gathering techniques.'"

"I hope you're not talking about torture," said Yevin.

"Of course not, Comrade General," replied Arigov. "Technically, we call it 'passive aggressive interrogation,' but I like to call it 'soft threatening.'"

"That's a curious idea," said Churbanov. "Please do explain."

"Usually, when we threaten a person, we look angry." This came from Lieutenant Vyacheslav Klimov. "Passive aggressive interrogation, or soft threatening as Lev likes to call it, aims to scare an individual while the examiner maintains a calm and peaceful demeanor, like what he's threatening to do is all in a day's work, as the Americans like to say."

"It sounds effective," said Yevin. "How much information have you gathered that way?"

"As of now, none," Klimov admitted. "But I'm about to do a dry run later in the afternoon. Lev here would've done it, but he's a little more emotional than me. He can't keep his feelings bottled up for long."

Arigov made a halfhearted punch at Klimov, who quickly ducked down. "No, he's serious, Comrade General," he said. "We have a promising target lined up in our sights, ripe for the picking."

"I'm glad that you two have a plan to extract information from our prisoners without resorting to torture," said Yevin. "I'm laying a lot on the line here. I have given my word to Tarenin to solve this mystery expediently, and I have no intention of breaking my word, especially to the governor. I'm trusting on you two to give Tarenin and his committees something good and juicy to investigate. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, Comrade General!"

"Sir, there's a Private Abramov from the Committee for State Security asking for you. He says he's also accompanying a Lieutenant Kumilyova and a Lieutenant Atolova."

"Kumilyova and Atolova?" said Klimov. "Can't say I've heard those names before."

"This Abramov guy says he's from the KGB, but I don't remember us doing anything to violate state security," said Arigov. "Send them in."

Abramov was ordinary enough. Like all KGB agents that they've met, he was obsessed with letting everyone know who he worked for. The women, though, were a different matter altogether.

It was as if Hollywood had come to Chechnya. The women looked like some actresses over there named Selena something and Demi something…

Carter and Rosie were similarly taken aback. Arigov and Klimov looked like the last people you would expect to be Russian officers. They resembled Cory Baxter and Newt Livingston from _Cory in the House_, which also reminded them of Colonel Kulyuchev, who bore a striking resemblance to President Martinez.

Abramov, sensing the questions forming in their minds, stepped in. "Let me tell you one thing, comrades. You are not American actors and actresses; you are four Russian officers under the employ of the Red Army and the Committee for State Security. So, will everyone please calm down?"

For once, everybody listened. They all took their seats. "I will be leaving now," said Abramov. "I have to submit my report to the Comrade Chairman."

The four just gazed at each other until Rosie broke the silence. "Colonel Fedorova sends her regards," she said.

"Colonel Fedorova," muttered Arigov. "Of course."

Klimov motioned for a quiet conversation. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I've thought about it. The Director thinks that Chechnya is quickly becoming a high-risk assignment for Governor Tarenin. They've sent these two over to help us on the off chance that a revolution will develop in Chechnya. I remember Dudayev. Do you?"

"You don't have to tell me twice."

"Who's the Dudayev guy?" asked Carter.

"Dzhokhar Dudayev, leader of the first independent Chechen state. He was killed by a Russian rocket strike back in 1996, similar to what happened to Daryaei. Rumors are that the CIA helped in triangulating his satellite phone's signal."

"Uh."

The two officers noticed that the women were listening to their conversation. "_Ty po russkiy_," said Arigov. _You speak Russian_.

"_Da_," replied Rosie. "It's good to know the language of one's enemy, don't you think?" she continued in Russian.

"It is," said Arigov in English. "Well, we've settled our differences. I guess that we'll all be waiting here until the shit hits the fan and we have to evacuate Tarenin."

* * *

A/N: Yes, I see Cory as Lieutenant Arigov, Newt as Lieutenant Klimov, and President Martinez as Colonel Kulyuchev! I'm planning on revealing who the others have been in future chapters. Wait and see who those guys are!


	18. Information

A/N: I've decided to not squeeze in references to my characters. Instead, I'll be providing a cast list at the end of this fic, if someone's willing to make a movie of it. Although the cast may prove too expensive, but it's all in the eyes of the beholder...

Anyway, read and review!

* * *

What was supposed to be a field day for the Third Shock Army turned out to be a disappointment. All of the fifteen prisoners sang like canaries, but what they gave the investigators was little to move forward with in this case. Apparently, all of them were just new to the militant group, with barely enough useful knowledge about the organization.

The only real lead they had was a name. It came from a kid barely sixteen years old, a petty criminal who was drawn into the Red Army of Bedoan through desperation. It was a shame, because the kid's father was a high-ranking member of the Chechen Central Committee.

"So, Vilen," began Klimov, "not only did you shoot at us soldiers; you also disrupted the restoration process. You could spend thirty years in a labor camp of my choice for that." It wasn't really true, but intimidation sometimes worked in this business. "Your name came from the founder of our former ideals, and yet you attacked those who struggle to keep Comrade Lenin's hopes alive in this world. Now, what do you think would he say to you?"

"I didn't really attack you guys," he replied. "I didn't even fire my rifle. I just got into this group because it seemed interesting, and there was money too. Most of the time, I just swipe a few rubles from people who don't even know that their purses are out in the open." Vilen Ivanovich Slavin didn't care that he was revealing his crimes, because he knew he was about to see what was on the other side of a gulag.

For Klimov, there was nothing he can do for the kid, unless he tells them something useful. "You're just escaping the point, Comrade Slavin. But, I can do something about your time in the gulag. All I need is a name. Just one name, and maybe I can limit your term into a year."

Slavin bent down head, thinking. Klimov waited patiently for a few seconds before the kid finally spoke. "There is one guy. His name is Ssottokkodd Ballall, I think. He wasn't a real member; it's just that somebody approached him with some work. I saw him a few times, but other than that, I don't know him."

Not much, thought Klimov, but it was enough for him that he considered suggesting that the kid should just get a slap on the wrist. "Thank you, Comrade Slavin. We will talk again once we've settled a few matters."

Klimov went out of the drab interrogation room and headed for the computer archives. One advantage to that was that you didn't have to look for names in filing cabinets anymore; the computers did that for you.

"Good morning, Comrade Private," he told the man on duty.

"Good morning, Comrade Lieutenant," he replied. "What brings you to the virtual world?"

"I have a few names for you to look up," Klimov told him. He then gave the private the name that Slavin had provided him. Surprisingly, there was a file for a Ssottokkodd Ballall, whose address was Apartment 27, Building 10, Great Patriotic War Avenue.

"Thank you, Comrade Private. That is all." Klimov considered telling Lev, but, no, he was already going through too much already. Chasing what could be a false flag planted by those Red Army pukes could push him over the edge. No, Klimov would tail Ballall himself.

This time, he was glad he was an officer. They can get in and out of headquarters without any real passes, and the higher-ups were too busy talking to the media to notice that a subordinate was gone. Klimov walked all the way to Great Patriotic War Avenue, which wasn't that far from the base. There he sat down on a bench facing the apartments and lit a cigarette. The smoke and tobacco made him cough, but he wanted to be alert.

Finally, after a few hours, Ballall went out of his apartment. He walked normally, not bothering to look for tails, for which Klimov was both glad and scared. Either he was confident that he hadn't been burned yet, or he already knew he was being tailed. Anyway, Klimov was past the point of no return. He had to do this.

Ballall went to the Bugayevskiy Prospect train station, where Klimov took the time to buy a magazine—it was _Pravda_—to legitimize his image. The train that pulled in was one of the old GU7s. The MST7 trains in use in Moscow had not yet come to Chechnya, and so they had to make to make do with what was here.

Klimov allowed himself to sink into the push for the doors. His objective went to the front of the railcar, while Klimov settled into the middle and began to read. He kept Ballall in his field of vision, just in case he would attempt a brush pass on the train.

"Yaroslav Prospect," said the train engineer on the public-address system. "Yaroslav Prospect."

Klimov's mind barely registered the announcement, and he would have ignored it had Ballall not moved for the doors. _Just when that Costa Luna article was getting interesting_, he thought. _Oh, well, if that's the price of espionage_. He tucked the magazine under his arm and followed the man.

Ballall was not the overly nervous type, and that pleased Klimov. His objective stopped only once, as if checking the street names. The key to not being an obvious tail was that you didn't look in the other direction when your objective looks at you. Klimov was thinking of bumping him when Ballall resumed walking.

Their journey brought them to the train depot. Ballall went inside, while Klimov went on his way. Now he knew where the man worked. That helped him a little in his investigation.

He found a café close to the train depot to while away the time before his objective returned from work. But he didn't count on being followed himself. Soon, he lost himself in an article describing how General Kane's socialist revolution failed. So when he glanced up from his magazine, he was actually surprised to see Carter in front of him.

"_Strasviche, tovarisch_," he managed to say.

"Beat it," she said. "Who was the guy you were following?"

Klimov sighed. "His name is Ssottokkodd Ballall. He is, as I see, either a train driver or a train mechanic for the Red Line."

"So? Why are you following him?"

"His name came up in the investigation," Klimov replied cryptically. "I'll tell you what, how would you like to talk to him?"

"Huh?"

"I'll hand over the investigation on Ballall to State Security, but in reality, it will be just you and your colleague."

"How exactly do you want us to do that?"

"Let me follow him for a little while, and then when I see an opportunity, I'll let you in."


	19. Ssottokkodd Ballall

"Ssottokkodd Ballall?"

"Yes. How may I help you?"

"State Security. We'd like to ask you some questions."

"Fine. Shoot away."

The interview went well, and the two were able to glean vital information from Ballall. He had been a veteran of the recent Liberian Civil War, and he apparently felt a little unappreciated after being a supposed war hero. But there was no real way to tell, since they didn't have his records (which wouldn't have mattered anyway, since the said records would have already been destroyed by said war).

In any case, getting a few drinks in had loosened his tongue. Soon, Ballall was already boasting of his wartime deeds.

"I was the only train driver to serve in the war, I was! I drove Liberia's only railgun! And now, this guy comes and asks me if I wanted a job transporting Chechen railguns."

That got the attention of the two. "Did you just say, 'Chechen railguns'?"

"Yes. There are maybe five of them."

"Do you know who the man who offered you the job was?"

"Yes. Although I don't know him personally, I know his name. He is Diya Sorky, a Russian national. He lives near the Apartments."

"Did he say anything about what you should do with the railguns?"

"Nothing, except that I wait for his instructions if I accept his offer."

"How much is he going to pay you?"

"As much as a million rubles if I can get all five guns to where he wants them."

* * *

"Well, any opinions on the matter?"

"Ballall's case could go either way," replied Rosie. "He is a foreign national collaborating with the Chechen insurrection, or he is a train driver that is about to become an unwitting pawn in a huge game of politics and global affairs."

"Meaning?"

"He is in this or he is not."

"Well, he's now a part of it, whether he likes it or not," said Carter. "A simple, one-time contact is enough to implicate him on a trial. Even if he doesn't accept this Sorky guy's offer, he's too deep in this mess to escape cleanly."

The two stopped at a railroad crossing, where a freight train was passing. They took the time to discuss the matter further. "Diya Sorky," muttered Carter. "I haven't heard that name before."

"It would not be surprising," replied Rosie, "although I am willing to bet that either Arigov or Klimov has heard of him. I will admit, there are few Chechens who have made their names famous. So far, only Governor Tarenin has been able to cast Chechnya in a positive light. The rest were rebels and terrorists."

"Who _are_ the Chechens that you know?"

"Excluding Tarenin, there is Dudayev and Barayev."

"Dudayev, I know a little. But who's Barayev?"

"Movsar Barayev was the Chechen terrorist responsible for beginning the Moscow Theater Siege."

"But he wasn't responsible for most of the deaths there, right?"

"Yes. It was mostly by the hands of the Spetsnaz that those civilians died."

"Is there any chance that could happen here too?"

"I doubt that. The Chechens do not want to harm their fellow countrymen. If a terrorist were to attack Chechnya, they are most likely to attack the government."

The freight train finally passed the crossing, and Carter and Rosie resumed their walk. "Why the government?" asked Carter.

"The insurrection views the current Chechen government as mere Russian puppets and collaborators. And for them, those two are the lowest forms of life."

"Even if they did rebuild the country?"

"Yes. It may look like progress to you and me, but the rebels see only Russian decadence and—"

A sudden explosion ripped through the sleeping city of Groznyy. A brilliant orange fireball burst out of the Capitol. The shockwave was so powerful that it knocked down the two women, a full two meters away. Stunned, it took time for them to recover.

"What were you saying about a terrorist attack on the Chechen government?" asked Carter.

"I cannot help it if I am a clairvoyant."

The scene that greeted them inside the Capitol was of utter chaos. People were running around aimlessly, without any direction. They wouldn't have gotten through had they not shouted the words, "State Security!" Apparently, the KGB still held a little power in this part of the world.

"Where did it blow up?"

"It was on the third floor. The Governor, the Vice Governor, high-ranking ministers, their offices are all located there. Anybody could have been a target."

The third floor of the Capitol could have sufficed for hell on earth. The heat emanating from the burning room was like that of a furnace. The paint from across the hallway was already peeling off. But a glance at the sign above the doorway told them everything.

"It's the Central Committee Room!" shouted Carter. "If the bomb didn't get anyone inside, the flames will!"

And then, an astounding sight: two men burst from the adjacent office and began attacking the flames with extinguishers. They recognized them as Governor Tarenin and General Yevin's aides.

"Who's inside?"

"Nobody!" replied Tarkovsky. "The Central Committee meeting was delayed because the press conference didn't end in time, and most of the ministers didn't want to start without the Governor."

"Where is he now?"

"Inside his office, with General Yevin and the Vice Governor."

They went inside and found Tarenin on the ground, kneeling beside a Red Army soldier, whom he tried to keep still while Lieutenant Arigov mended his broken leg. Yevin, who was still dumbstruck by the events, was telling Klimov what he saw, although the lieutenant could barely understand his commanding officer's words.

All of them had no way of knowing it, but they had just participated in the climax of a play that would change the face of Chechnya forever.


	20. Diya Sorky

"…_A bomb has exploded in Chechnya's capital of Groznyy_…"

"…_the death toll is unknown, but the public is being assured that Governor Dazdrapertrak Tarenin is safe_…"

"…_chaos and confusion are on the rise in this war-torn country_…"

"…_evidence points to Chechen rebels operating from the north of the republic_…"

"…_the possibility that the Russian president could use the incident to justify a new deployment operation in the autonomous republic has been raised_…"

"…_sources say that massive troop surges are in the works_…"

"…'_we are willing to do anything to drive out the rebels and restore peace between our two countries_'…"

"…_will Chechnya ever sleep peacefully again_...?"

"This is bad, Comrade Governor," said Tarkovsky, turning off the television. "Everything that you've worked hard for, sir, they're all gone with a snap of the fingers."

"I know that, Alexei," said Tarenin. "You need not rub it in."

"But for all that, Comrade Governor, there is one single piece of good news." Tarkovsky brought out a folder and handed it to Tarenin. "General Yevin has just earmarked possible insurrectionists responsible for the bombing of the Capitol. He thinks that if we are able to capture even one of these men, we could uncover this whole operation and bring it down."

Tarenin sighed. "I don't know, Alexei. This doesn't look promising to me."

"Don't say that, Comrade Governor. Think about it! That was the same thing that you said of Chechnya when you were elected to your post. And now look at the country! It has become the envy of the neighboring oblasts and krais. You have the power to strike back at them; you just have to use it."

Suddenly, Tarkovsky observed a change in the governor's demeanor. The spark in his eyes seemed to brighten, and his attitude also changed. "By God, you're right, Alexei! They may have struck us first, but we have the ability to strike back! Go to General Yevin at once! Tell him that he has my unconditional approval on all military operations he has yet to undertake. Also, I want detailed operational reports for every mission of his that proceeds against the rebels. God damn me if they're not gone by the end of my term!"

"As you say, Comrade Governor."

* * *

"Is he serious?"

"As serious as he will ever be, Comrade General," replied Tarkovsky. "He doesn't want to go down in history as just another governor. He wants the rebels stamped out under his reign."

Yevin nodded and reclined in his seat. He had received a strong blow to the head during the explosion, and the stresses of the job weren't helping with his massive headache. The pressures of commanding the Third Shock Army were beginning to get to him.

Tarkovsky watched as the general swallowed some aspirin. He knew of Yevin's problems, and, truth be told, be didn't envy him.

"Very well, Mr. Tarkovsky," Yevin finally said. "Tell the Governor that his message has been received."

"Yes, Comrade General."

* * *

"Diya Sorky? I've never heard of him."

Carter looked at Rosie, who looked away. "Seriously, you have no idea?"

"Well, _I_ don't know him, but maybe some of my snitches do. I'll tell you what; I'll lend you one of my informants for now. His name is Yevgeny Vladimirovich Leninsky. He may seem a little young, but he's well-connected to the underworld."

* * *

"Do you trust this guy Klimov handed over to us?"

"Why do I always have to be the judge of a person's character?" asked Rosie.

"You're good at it. Besides, you heard what Klimov said. A kid with connections to the Russian underworld? Sounds like Hollywood to me."

"Did Hollywood also predict a queen becoming a secret agent?"

"I give up. What do we know about him?"

"Yevgeny Vladimirovich Leninsky, born on March 15, 1999 in Groznyy, Chechnya. His parents were killed by Russian bombs in 2002, during the Second Chechen War. His official description in his file at Central Army Records say that the streets became his family, the country his home. He has no criminal record so to speak until 2006, when he was reportedly involved in some petty crimes, but the state, having no evidence, let him go. He recently bought a house using money of questionable origin, as the file says. Possible links in the Russian Mafia, although that is still a rumor as yet unconfirmed by other sources. But it has been established that he is linked to low-ranking Chechen insurrectionists—" Rosie turned around and found Carter staring blankly at her a few paces back.

"What kind of brain do you have?" she asked.

"You did say everything we knew about Leninsky."

"No, not everything down to the color of his underwear. But how about where does he live?"

"That I can answer quickly. Mr. Leninsky lives in 116 Komsomolskaya Avenue."

"Good."

The rest of the walk went on in silence, until they finally reached Komsomolskaya Avenue. There was a boy waiting for them outside number 116, which was a dull white house.

"Yevgeny Leninsky?"

"Jesus is the way, comrades. Welcome!"

"Your comrades at work called ahead and said you'd be coming," he said as they entered his house. "You two actually caught me at an inopportune time. I had been eating my lunch." He took a bowl of borscht to emphasize his point.

"We are terribly sorry for that," said Rosie.

"Ah, an apologetic woman." Leninsky plopped down on his couch, managing not to spill his borscht in the process. "I hate to admit it, but I'm not a really liberated man. How may I help you two ladies?"

"Diya Sorky," said Carter. "Where is he?"

"Old Diya? He's very expensive. You will not find him easily in Chechnya. He owns a few safe houses, scattered around the country, would you believe? Diya is one of the most paranoid men on the planet, and he has all of his safe houses occupied at all times, most of the time for free, to keep the Army and State Security off his scent, as the Americans say. I can find out where he is, but it would take time."

"He thinks he can ask us anything that he needs because we're desperate to know where this Sorky guy is," said Kumilyova.

"And there is still the chance that he would not provide us with the correct address," Atolova agreed.

"What do you think we should do?"

"We will agree to his demands, as long as it is not impossible."

Leninsky watched silently as the two whispered to each other. Finally, it looked as if they had reached a solution.

"What do you want, Yevgeny?" asked Carter.

"Just a guarantee that old Diya will never hear that I engineered his capture."

"Sounds reasonable. You have our word. Now, where is he?"

Leninsky took a pink figurine of Buddha and began toying with it. "He's in a old house, near the Apartments. It's impossible to miss it, its construction dates back to the tsars."

"Thank you, Mr. Leninsky. Rest assured, Mr. Sorky will not hear of any of this."

"Good to know," he said to their retreating backs.


	21. State Security

"State Security!"

The house supposedly occupied by Diya Sorky was indeed an old one, with a definite tsarist feel. It had probably been the home of a low-ranking landowner before falling into ruin during the Cold War. It provided only basic necessities, enough to not be classified as a cave.

A pair of cold, emotionless eyes watched the two women as they probed the house. Its owner lined up the iron sights of a shotgun in their direction and fired in their general direction. "Who's that?" he shouted. "Who's in my house?"

The two crept silently towards the wall separating them from the shooter. At that point, they began to communicate through lip reading.

_Got a mirror?_

_What do you need that for?_

_Checking out the opposition._

_The table in front of you. Would that suit your purpose?_

Carter shrugged and took the old mirror lying on the table. Moving slowly towards the door leading to the other room, she placed the mirror inside a broken glass pane. The reflection of a single man wearing the baggy clothes of a plant worker holding a shotgun stared back at her. Suddenly, he faced the mirror, and it disappeared into a thousand fragments. "Holy—!"

_Only one guy inside_, she told Rosie.

_Then how come has he gotten us two cowering behind the wall?_

_I'm ending this now. And don't ask. You don't want to know, I swear_. Taking the largest shard of the mirror, Carter stuck it into the door.

Diya Sorky, who was busy reloading his weapon, never saw the shard until the final moment. As he turned to look at the door, a bright object overloaded his retinas, causing him to turn blind for a few moments.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! Don't kill me."

Diya Sorky was a sorry sight in person. His blond hair was already beginning to gray in a few places, and he had a week's worth of stubble. But his most surprising feature was a missing right thumb. It was astonishing enough that it made them wonder how he could have fired a gun in that condition.

"You okay, Rose?" asked Carter. She nodded in reply, and then suddenly pushed Sorky down on his bed using the barrel of her gun. The man moaned and whimpered.

"I don't know nothing," he said.

"I didn't ask you a question yet," said Carter. "Are you lying to me already? How did you know about the railguns? Were you involved in the Capitol bombing? Stop lying. Stop lying!"

"Do you know anything?" asked Rosie. "I am going to be nice about it. Do you know anything?" All she got a shake of the head.

"I don't know nothing!" shouted Sorky. "I don't do the research, man! Black man do the research, man! He come to me and told me to contact train driver and tell him job!"

"What's his name?" asked Carter. "The black man! What's his name?"

Sorky was about to reply when a cellphone rang. "It's his," said Rosie, taking a gray, beaten-up unit. "Answer it," she commanded Sorky in Russian.

"Hello?" he said. It was followed by a minute-long conversation, with Sorky nodding and agreeing with whatever the person on the other end was saying. Finally, he nodded and ended the call.

"It was train driver Ballall," he told his audience of two. "He call to tell me he take job. I told him to wait for instruction."

"What are you supposed to do after that?" asked Carter.

Sorky didn't answer. Instead, he took his cellphone and dialed another number. "Hello, sir? It's Diya. Ballall will take the job."

"What did he tell you?"

"I take my instruction from him directly. Not over the phone. He think is tapped."

"What are you waiting for? Get fixed up and go to him. And remember," Carter added, "no funny moves. If you so much as think of telling your employer you're being followed, you'll be spending the rest of your life in a gulag. I can do that, you know."

Sorky did his job as normally as he can, but thoughts of life in Russia's labor camps made his almost do it worse. Nervously, he made his way to an apartment block and entered. Following closely, the two were able to catch the address the manager gave Sorky. They waited for a few minutes before Sorky returned, clutching a white envelope. He went out, trying very hard not to look at them.

Sorky went to Ballall's apartment next, where he disappeared for another minute before he was finally beckoned into a waiting car. Its occupants were the two women following him.

"What did you hand over to Ballall?" asked Carter.

"Instructions."

"Did you see the contents?"

"No. It was already inside envelope when sir give it to me."

"What's his name? Your boss, Diya. You were about to tell me when all this began."

"I don't know his name, but he calls himself Timofey."

"Thank you, Mr. Sorky. Now, I would like to ask just one more favor. Can we borrow your computer?"

Sorky can only look at them in mute surprise.


	22. Masters and Slaves

A/N: Yes! After more than a year of hiatus, _Fighting Land_ is back! And it will have more thrills, more spills, and whatever else makes a returning work of fiction great!

* * *

"_Tripp is looking for the open man…He finds Albert, but the defenders are immediately all over him. He decides to give it to Solis—Watson steals the ball! I can't believe it! Warren Watson, Des Moines's new thief!_"

"Yes! Now stick the ball into those Canucks' rears!"

This is Rostislav Abramov:

A brilliant computer specialist. An avid sports fan. A patriot. A young man with lots of potential and the room to grow it in. Many people had initially questioned his being brought in as the computer expert of the Krakozhian liaison to Chechnya, but when he fixed the entire Internet network in Groznyy, no one doubted him anymore. Now, he's an invaluable asset to the Krakozhian mission. And people do everything they can to make sure that he gets what he wants. That was why he had a room to himself, filled with all the computers he "needed" to do his work, as well as a television connected to the major American sports networks. And, of course, all the vodka he could drink.

And because he finally had Western TV, he finally understood why people said he looked like Greg Sanders of _CSI_ fame: he did. Because of that, he did what a person in his situation would do: he decided to further the image. Now, he could speak in clean English, but it's a secret he only reveals to the girls.

Now, as he drank his third bottle of vodka, he watched as the Des Moines Gems tries to take the lead from the Uranium City Nukes.

"Pass it to Arkadyev! Pass it back to Watson! Give it to Subpilt! No, not to Ford! Good call, giving it back to Watson. Arkadyev's open, pass it to him! Yes! Go for the three, comrade, go for the three! Yes! Three points for the Gems! Take that, you Canucks! Yeah, uh-huh-!"

He stopped in mid-dance once he saw the American and the Latina agents from that princess-protecting program standing in the doorway, staring at him like he was mad. He quickly composed himself and said, "What can I do for you today, fine ladies?"

"Well," said the Latina, "can you show us what's inside this?" She showed him a very beat up laptop.

"Absolutely, comrades. Wow, I see a little bullet hole in there. Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Do you really want to know the answer to that question?" replied the American.

"I guess not. Okay, this laptop looks like an Asus. You know, I love the Asus. Now, let's just take the hard drive and then put it in my own laptop. Not password-protected? That's weird; I never have a unit that's not password-protected." He opened the documents folder, and a wealth of battle-related documents appeared on the screen. "Take a look at this. Chechen maps, a road map of Groznyy, highway routes, power plants, landmarks, and all that stuff. Well, look at what we have here. I've never seen a timed-encrypt-decrypt file before. You know, I've heard that this may be the most advanced encryption method in existence. Unfortunately, it's a little easy to crack. I just need a specific block of code that's buried deep in the file."

"If you had another timed-encrypt-decrypt file that's already open, can you use it to open that?"

"Forgive me for my inattentiveness, but can I ask for your names again?"

"Okay," replied the American, "since you asked, I'm Carter, and that's Rosie."

"And who asked the question about the TED?"

"I did," replied the girl named Rosie.

"Well, Rosie," replied Abramov, "sorry to burst your bubble, so to speak, but that's impossible unless both files came from the same author."

Rosie walked over to Abramov and handed him her flash drive. "Take a look at the file named _Nerushimy_. Maybe it would help."

A few minutes later, Abramov was deep inside _Nerushimy_'s programming code. "You're right; they were made by the same author. Now, all I need is to find the part of the code that shows how much time is left before the file decrypts itself. It may be sophisticated, but its weak spot is very obvious." After calculating the remaining time to Diya's file's decryption, he adjusted his computer's clock, and waited for a whole minute before accessing the file again. But when he opened it, a single line flashed on the screen. It read: slave file not in sync with master file.

"Damn," he muttered. "The guy who made these files is one heck of a smart guy. He's counted on the possibility that we can access his source code and fool the program."

"Can you find the master file?" asked Carter.

"It's doable," replied Abramov. "Since the master and slave files communicate with each other, it's just a matter of tracking the outgoing signal from the slave." A few more minutes later, he brought up a set of numbers on the screen. "That's the IP address of the computer where the master file is located."

"But where is the file itself?"

Abramov selected an item from a menu on the screen. "I don't think you'll be able to believe it," he told the two of them as a warning. The screen showed a map of the world, which quickly zoomed in to Europe, then to the Caucasus Mountains, then to Chechnya, before finally stopping somewhere in the northern part of Groznyy. "That close?" asked Carter.

"I knew you wouldn't believe it," said Abramov. "I've managed to hack into this guy's computer—really hard to resist that temptation—and look at his records. That's all the time that I had, so I wasn't able to copy the master, but now, I present to you, Mr. Timothy James Laurent Cotton, deputy secretary to the consul of the Republic of Liberia to the Russian Federation in Groznyy."

* * *

"What's a Liberian doing helping the Chechen rebellion?"

"It is hard to understand the alliances of nation-states," replied Rosie. "Take the Nazi-Soviet Non-Aggression Pact. While it gave Russia the illusion of peace, that did not stop Hitler's armies from charging through the border."

"I'm not getting your point," said Carter.

"A lot of things can make nations make alliances. But those things are beyond me."

The two stepped out of the Capitol. "So, how do you plan on dealing with this Cotton guy?" asked Carter.

"I haven't really thought of that yet, but—" Something made Rosie stop talking, and when Carter looked around, she saw what it was. Twenty men clad in black coveralls stood at the edge of the opposite sidewalk. They were wearing white masks and red caps, and a rifle hung from each left shoulder. And then, in one fluid motion, those in front knelt down, took their weapons, and fired at the Capitol. At the same time, those in the back took their rifles and turned around, forming a sort of rearguard.

"Are they trying to break the world record for terrorist attacks in a week?" asked Carter.

"I do not pretend to know how these people's minds work!" Rosie shouted back.

The guards at the Capitol didn't have a chance to return fire since every time the front row ran out of ammunition; those in the back quickly took their place. This went on for a few minutes before the shooters scattered and disappeared into the surroundings. The only evidence of their existence was the hundreds of bullet casings lying on the ground.

Another attack against the pro-Moscow government of Chechnya had just happened.

* * *

"What happened today, Yaroslav?"

"It's a little bit of a surprise for us, too," Yaroslav Yevin told Governor Dazdrapertrak Tarenin. "But the attack is consistent with the Prokofiev Hills cell's style, down to the coveralls and masks."

"Are you telling me that the rebels have made another attempt at my life?" the governor asked hotly.

"I wouldn't call it an attempt, Governor; more like an attempt to sow terror in the hearts and minds of the Chechen people. I doubt that a 7.62 millimeter Kalashnikov bullet has the penetration power to pass through three brick and mortar walls—"

"Haven't you heard, Yaroslav? I was overseeing the gutting out of the Central Committee Room when those Prokofiev Hills rebels struck. I doubt that the timing was coincidental."

"This job isn't just about protecting your life, Dazdrapertrak!" shouted Yevin. "It's also about rebuilding the Chechen Republic, training your armed forces to become a real fighting force, and paving the way for your increased autonomy and eventual independence!"

"You do not talk to your commander-in-chief that way!"

"My commander-in-chief? My commander-in-chief is President Irina Adzhitekova of the Republic of Krakozhia, and I report directly to Marshal Oleg Sergeyevich Dallutev of the Krakozhian Army!"

"Do they always talk that way?" Carter asked Aleksey Tarkovsky, Tarenin's secretary. They were standing in the anteroom leading to the Governor's office, and they could hear the argument that far away.

"No," replied Tarkovsky. "Most of the time, they're very cordial persons. But this is not a heated argument for them, per se. It's simply a matter to go in, bring them a bottle of vodka to defuse the situation, and after a shot, they'll both be bosom friends once again."

"Isn't it time to defuse the situation right now?"

"No, it doesn't feel right this time. Maybe in about, oh, five minutes, but not right now." He then lit a cigarette and returned to his office.

"Doesn't it bother you at all?" Carter asked him as he walked.

"Oh, you'll get used to it."

"This is very troubling," said Rosie as they went out. "If Yevin and Tarenin can't settle their differences as soon as possible, Chechnya is headed for the downhill path."

"Why? You heard his secretary. Just a bottle of vodka and they're as good as new—"

"Drunken men think no better than angry ones. Without a united leadership to show to the people, the Chechen government would fall quickly; the rebels will take over, and it would take more than a very hard effort to dislodge them from their position."

"Well, here's to hoping that doesn't happen to our Chechen comrades," said Carter. "Now, how do we deal with Cotton?"

"To be honest with you, Carter, I have not thought of that yet."

They heard running footsteps behind them, and as they turned around, they were greeted by Rostislav Abramov. "Hello, ladies," he said as he tried to regain his breath. "Lieutenants Arigov and Klimov want you to come to their office immediately. Follow me." He ran away without waiting for a reply.

"What do you think they want from us?" asked Carter.

"I do not know, but it cannot be good," replied Rosie.


	23. Takedown

A/N: Since I'll be throwing around some unfamiliar names, I've decided to mark them with asterisks and have their identities revealed at the bottom of the chapter. Cheers and R&R! GR

* * *

Carter Mason and Rosie Fiore* had just survived through another terrorist attack in Chechnya, and they had to endure two grown men shout at each other like two brats fighting over the newest toy. But when a Krakozhian computer engineer told them to come to his superiors' office immediately without explaining the reason why, they couldn't help but wonder what was in store for them right now.

"Faster, comrades!" shouted Private Rostislav Abramov as he ran. "They don't like to wait."

"I haven't run this fast since Botswana!" said Carter through gasps of air.

Although Abramov was an obvious nerd, he was still faster than both women, and he beat them to the lieutenants' office. "Private Abramov with Agents Mason and Fiore, Comrade Lieutenant," he said as he entered.

"Good," replied Senior Lieutenant Lev Arigov. "Get suited up with the rest of the gang. We have a rebel to take down."

Carter and Rosie arrived at the lieutenants' office just a few moments later. "What is it?" asked Carter. "What are you calling us for?"

"What do you think?" asked Arigov in reply. "Didn't you discover this plot to overthrow the Chechen government?"

"Actually, we have not discovered any plot against the Chechen government," replied Rosie, "but we did learn the identity of the man who is leading these rebels against you and the Chechens."

"Congratulations, you've finally learned that Shamil Basayev* is the leader of the Chechen rebels," Vyacheslav Klimov said sarcastically.

"Uh, Vyacheslav, Basayev retired back in 2009," Arigov whispered to him in Russian.

"Oops."

"Forgive Vyacheslav, he doesn't take kindly to foreigners," Lev apologized. "Is the name of your supposed rebel leader Timothy James Laurent Cotton?"

Although he pronounced the name in a funny way, Carter could still understand the gist of what he said. "Yes," she replied. "That's the guy."

"I knew it. We've had this guy under surveillance ever since we got here. And we keep hearing all kinds of anti-government crap from him. 'We must band together to bring down these Western puppets!', 'That Zionist infidel in the Capitol must die!', 'This is all a plot for the Americans to control the world!', and other things that would get you thrown into prison just for thinking it. We've been trying to nab this guy ever since we got here, but General Yevin wants more than just anti-government spewing before he gives us the go signal. But what you found with Private Abramov was more than good enough. Now, all we need to do is bust him." He picked up two bulletproof vests and threw them to the women. "Get suited up. We want to show you how to do a takedown our way."

Carter and Rosie slipped on the vests and followed Arigov and Klimov as they boarded a black truck with no markings. They noticed that all of them were wearing black coveralls underneath their armor, making their civilian clothes stand out. They also saw that they were the only ones who had no weapons.

"It's for your safety," Arigov told them when Rosie asked him why. "We wouldn't want our foreign guests to hurt themselves, do we?" He then laughed a little and returned to his ready state.

The truck suddenly stopped, and the driver knocked on the divider to let them know that they were at their destination. They got off quietly, and they moved into the apartment building where Tim Cotton was staying. As they climbed up to the third floor, Arigov opened his radio and asked softly, "How are you doing over there, Rostislav?"

"We have four men in the apartment beside his," replied Abramov. "We're listening in on their conversation."

"What are they talking about right now?"

"Sorky has just introduced Ballall to Cotton. They're currently on good terms, but I think Ballall has just asked for an increase in his pay."

"Good." Arigov, Klimov, Carter, and Rosie lined up on the left side of Cotton's apartment's door. "Anything else?"

"Wait; this is interesting. They're talking about the attack on the Capitol this morning. Sorky says that the rebels were fools for trying to shoot through the Capitol's thick walls. Ballall agrees with him, and he says that the rebels should have used a rifle with a telescopic sight to kill Tarenin."

"So our Liberian train engineer is experienced with snipers and their rifles. Keep me posted."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

To the sergeant opposite him, Arigov said, "Do it." The sergeant placed a block of explosive below the doorknob, attached a detonating cord, and ran it out into the hallway before connecting it to a detonator. He flashed a thumbs-up, and Arigov said, "Now!"

Arigov's command had barely begun to register in Carter's mind when a loud explosion shook the third floor, and splinters of wood flew in all directions. Someone—a man or a woman, she couldn't tell—screamed, and through the smoke, she could see Arigov and Klimov throw a flashbang grenade each into the doorway. If the explosion that blew the door away didn't confuse those inside, then the flashbangs would. The Krakozhians entered the apartment in pairs, just as they were trained to do and just as they had done on so many occasions across the Chechen Republic. That left Carter and Rosie standing there alone, until a hand waved them into the room.

The carnage that had once been Tim Cotton's apartment was not as surprising as when Carter and Rosie had done their first room breach. The door looked more like toothpicks and firewood by now, and the wall that it had smashed into had cracked and was showing its innards in a dozen or so places. The coffee table was cut in half by one flashbang, while the other made its mark on the television—literally. It had cracked the screen and scorched the silver finish.

Sorky, Ballall, and Cotton were seated in the kitchen—the center of every Russian home—which had protected them from the initial blast and the consequent flashbangs, but the noise of both events had put them all in a panic, and before they could fight or flee, they were rudely shoved out of their chairs, dropped to the floor, handcuffed, and had guns pointed to the back of their heads.

"_Zdravstvulte_, _gospodin_ Cotton," said Arigov. "We've had our eyes on you for a very long time."

"What is this?" asked Cotton. "You cannot do this to me! I am a recognized foreign dignitary sent by the Republic of Liberia to our consulate here in the Chechen Republic!"

"Yes, you are that, Mr. Cotton, but you are also guilty of conspiracy to commit theft, attempted theft of state property, and of course state treason and rebellion against the Chechen Republic and the Russian Federation. Take them away!"

"No!" Cotton continued to shout. "This is oppression! You will hear from President Sirleaf* about this!" Sorky and Ballall, both having experienced being arrested before, didn't say and do much, knowing that it could only worsen their situation. Just before he went out, Sorky stared at Carter and Rosie, and then he was pushed away by the Krakozhian troopers.

"So, what do you think?" Lev asked them once they had cleaned up the apartment.

"Nicely done," was all that Carter could say.

"What she said," replied Rosie, "although you could have used those new door-busting explosives that is so popular with the American Marines today."

"True, but that was all that we had right now. Obama's* not yet willing to sell us some units yet."

* * *

Unknown to Carter, Rosie, Sorky, Ballall, Cotton, and the Krakozhians, a man inside an old Zaporozhets car was watching them all carefully. As they stepped out of the apartment building, he quickly took photographs of those involved, which were uploaded to the laptop on the passenger seat. He selected some pictures and then took his cell phone and placed a call.

"Yes?" the man at the other end asked.

"Sir," the man replied, "our man has been burned."

Miles away, Lavrenty Timofeyenko sat up on his bed. Beside him, the woman that he had picked up in the local whorehouse groaned and turned away from him. "Which one?" he asked. "We have lots of those."

"It's the Liberian in Chechnya," the man replied. "The Krakozhians have picked him up, along with our train driver and rebel."

"Do you have photos?"

"I am sending them over now."

Timofeyenko walked over to his computer and opened his inbox. "I have them," he told the man. "I will present them to our employer first thing in the morning."

"Yes, sir. I believe it is an inconvenient time for you, sir."

"It is, my friend."

"Do you want me to do anything for our men here? Break them out, bail them out, what?"

"No, my friend. Do nothing. Maintain your cover there, but return here as fast as you can."

"As you say, sir."

"Good. So long for now."

After the call was ended, the man carefully packed his laptop and camera away before speeding off into the night.

* * *

*I prefer Rosie's real surname to her other one (Gonzalez)

*Shamil Basayev is the leader of the Chechen separatists

*Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf is the President of Liberia

*Barack Obama is the President of the United States of America (for those of you who live in a cave)


	24. Another Plot

"We have the master file."

"Finally, some good news," said Rostislav Abramov, downing the last of the vodka in his bottle. "Let me take a look." He then began stretching his arms and cracking his knuckles, a ritual he always does every time before working on his computers. Cotton's password was easy to beat, and soon, Abramov was in the master file's code itself. "Damn," he muttered. "This is one heck of an advanced file. It's sending out various signals to the computers with its slave files. Take a look at this! The slave file inside the Zhukova-2 cell received the decrypt signal the night before the bombing of the Capitol. And the file inside the Prokofiev Hills cell was decrypted the day before those gunmen shot up the Capitol. This isn't just a timed-encrypt-decrypt file anymore; it's a timer counting down to Chechen rebels' big offensive."

"But what about the other files still encrypted?"

"I think they're only encrypted in the slave computers. With the master file, we can see everything they have in store for us." Abramov then opened the file named _Operation Bezzavetno_. "My God," he muttered. "This is a complete battle plan for the Third Chechen War. The individual rebel cells have their own areas of responsibility, and they also have plans to invade Ingushetia, Dagestan, and the other neighboring oblasts. And apparently, they hate the government too." Abramov brought up edited photographs of President Dmitry Medvedev and Governor Tarenin, whose faces were each marked with a blood-red X. In another frame, General Yevin was marked in a similar way. Many other prominent persons in Chechnya didn't survive this mutilation of their visuals effigies, even Aleksey Tarkovsky, General Boris Churbanov, and the mayor of Groznyy. Only Vice Governor Zimyat Kodudov and a general unknown to them escaped this treatment.

"We have to get this to General Yevin," they all said at the same time.

* * *

"This is impossible," muttered Yevin, staring blankly at the _Bezzavetno_ printout.

"Where did you get this information?" asked Churbanov.

"We have a suspected rebel in custody," replied Rosie. "These files were found in his possession."

"We're looking at a total wipeout here if we can't stop this in time," Carter added.

"She's right," said Lev Arigov. "Most of our troops are concentrated in or near the most devastating cells. These guys are experienced bastards, while all we have are raw recruits who can barely remember their basic training on a good day. If the rebels strike, our men wouldn't stand a chance."

"Thank you for your assessment, Lev Vladimirovich," said Yevin. "I'll consider that for our new defense plan."

"Should we inform the governor?" asked Churbanov.

"I'll do it myself, Boris Borisovich," replied Yevin. "Lev, Vyacheslav, I'm counting on you to present to me a new plan once I get back. The Russians' old ones simply won't work anymore. You—" He pointed at Carter and Rosie "—since you two have the best handle on those rebels for now, I want you to help them out."

After Yevin left, Arigov quickly took a rolled-up map of Chechnya and laid it out on the floor. Taking a marker, he began highlighting specific districts on the map. "What's in this sector?" he asked, pointing at the southern part of Chechnya.

"The 15th and 62nd Motor Rifles," replied Klimov.

"Who's covering the Kirovsky cell?"

"The 160th Rifle Division," replied Churbanov.

"How about the cell on our border with Ingushetia?"

"The 106th Tanks Army."

"Okay, we've just identified the troops inside the regions with the highest risk in Chechnya. These will be the first to go out. You, what's your name again? Rosie? What region held the least risk of invasion from the rebels?"

"Stavropol Krai," she replied.

"I know CINC-Stavropol," said Churbanov. "If worst comes to worst, maybe I can lean on Major General Gridin for help."

"You do that, sir. We need all the help that we can get." Arigov then looked up, as if a sudden and unexpected thought struck him. "Just a question sir. How many troops does Stavropol have?"

"About fifteen hundred men."

"And the Third Shock Army has-?"

"Twelve thousand."

_Thirteen thousand and five hundred soldiers to fight an innumerable foe_, thought Arigov. _Would all that be enough to fight them?_

Planning lasted all night, and when they finally finished, a new defense plan lay ready for approval by General Yevin and Governor Tarenin: Operation Red Star.

* * *

"Comrades?" said Abramov. "I've found something interesting." He quickly brought up another document from Cotton's computer. It was about a bomb plot on the Capitol.

"Man, these guys are very determined to bring down the Chechen government," Carter observed.

"Have you seen a method of delivery in there?" asked Rosie.

Abramov scrolled down and revealed two pictures. The first one was of a truck, an Ural-4320, which was very common throughout Russia. The other was of a photocopy of the truck's registration and records. "This plan has a truckload of American high explosives, specifically the new Composition 6, being delivered to the Capitol to be detonated," he said. "And since the Ural-4320 can carry up to six thousand pounds of cargo—"

"That's enough power to destroy the Capitol twice!" said Carter and Rosie at the same time. "Print everything! We have to get this to General Yevin at once!"

But instead of seeing General Yevin in his office, they came upon Arigov and Klimov inside, playing cards. "Do you have any aces?" Arigov asked before he noticed the two women standing in the doorway.

"Where's the general?" asked Carter.

"Downstairs, in the mess hall," replied Klimov. "It's the temporary Central Committee room until we have the old one fixed."

"What's rubbing you the wrong way enough to try to meet the general at this very early hour?" asked Arigov.

Rosie tossed to them copies of the bomb plot. "Read," she said.

The two lieutenants read in silence for two minutes, broken only by an occasional groan or gasp, but otherwise, they were taking it all in, and they were taking it well.

"This is serious," said Arigov after finishing the document. "It's probably a good thing that you gave this to us. You wouldn't want to know what will happen if General Yevin saw this. Fine, we'll alert the guards; get them to inspect every truck coming in to the Capitol thoroughly. We'll deal with briefing this to Yevin."

"I'm all right with the briefing part," said Klimov, "but for the inspecting the trucks thing, it may not come to that."

"Why is that, Il'ych?" asked Lev.

"I know the man who owns the truck. Vilen Ivanovich Slavin. He was one of those Red Army of Bedoan militants that we captured during first Capitol shootout. Maybe it's time to pay the kid a visit. And all of you are coming with me."


	25. A Traitor Revealed

"Thank you kindly. Who sprung me?"

"Hello, Comrade Slavin."

"You." The kid spat the word. He remembered clearly how Vyacheslav Klimov had pushed him to admit his crimes and relations with the Red Army of Bedoan with threats of life in the dreaded labor camps. He had broken down and confessed, giving him the name of that Liberian nobody just to appease this officer. If only his father knew of his fate, but then he remembered that Ivan Slavin had already disowned after he strayed from the path of the Communist Party. The only good thing that had come out of what he had done was that he had been brought to the Lavrenty Beria City Jail for "temporary incarceration," while his fellow militants had been thrown into the Josef Stalin Regional Labor Camp.

"What do you want from me now?" Vilen Slavin asked.

"Oh, nothing," replied Klimov in an off-hand tone, "just wanted to ask you about the Ural-4320 truck with license plate number BRG-221 registered to your name."

"I've done my part of the deal," Slavin replied defiantly. "I'm telling you nothing."

"Is that so?" Klimov took Slavin's shoulder and led him out of the jail. "Comrade Slavin, Comrade Slavin," he said, shaking his head and feigning disappointment, "you have broken my heart. I really thought that you had what it takes to clean up your act and return to the free world a changed man. But it seems that I am mistaken. Now, have you heard of the Leonid Brezhnev National Labor Camp?"

"Not that camp!" moaned Slavin.

"Yes, it's that camp, Comrade Slavin. The gulag where all the sex offenders are sent. It is said that the most dangerous men there are the senile old farts that resemble Leonid Il'ych. I hear that they're very interested in young new arrivals. I've used my power to send you here. I can use that power again to send you there."

"No, Mr. Klimov, please!" shouted Slavin. "I'll do anything for you. Just don't send me to the Brezhnev gulag!"

"It's good to know that you still have some common sense, Comrade Slavin. Now, kindly follow me into my car."

Another man appeared from the car that Klimov had pointed at and motioned for Slavin to get inside. He was forced into the middle when both men entered from opposite sides. "Take us to Great Patriotic War Avenue," Klimov ordered the driver.

"_Da, tovarishch_," replied a female voice.

"Tell us where your truck is located," ordered Klimov.

"Drive all the way to Romanov Prospect. Then take Kursk Street to the outskirts."

"You may want to talk lightly to the women," said Klimov with a hint of distaste. "They're State Security."

"The Sword and the Shield of the Party, comrades," said the other woman sitting in the front passenger seat.

* * *

"Get me Kodudov."

"_I am sorry, Governor_," replied Kodudov's secretary, "_but the Vice Governor is not here_."

_Damn_, thought Tarenin. "Where is he now?"

"He's currently accompanying General Beykurovich to a private talk with some of the rebels."

* * *

"Are you sure that we can pull this off?"

"Don't worry, Nikolai," replied Zimyat Kodudov, Vice Governor of the Chechen Republic. "I've covered the both of us so much that I'm choking underneath it."

"But what of our contacts to our employers?" asked Major General Nikolai Beykurovich, commander-in-chief of the Chechen Provisional Armed Forces.

"We have no need for them now. Our operation is now self-sufficient, and it will take a very deep penetration agent to uncover our involvement in the Third Chechen War."

"Or a single person with a change of heart."

"By the time the world will know of our treachery, Nikolai, it will be too late for them to stop us."

"If the man knows how to do his job," Beykurovich told nobody.

* * *

"Meetings between the rebels and the Red Army of Bedoan usually take place before dawn, but I've heard that there will be one tonight, though."

"You're doing a good job, Vilen," said Klimov. "You've cleared your name for the sake of Mother Russia."

"What's with all this talk about rebel cells?" Carter asked Rosie. "What do they mean?"

"That's how the rebels operate," she replied. "Chechnya is divided into divisions, which are further divided into the cells they're talking about. For example, the Groznyy rebel district is divided into over a hundred cells. A cell's size ranges from two men to fifty men, so that means there's between two hundred and five thousand rebels within Groznyy alone."

"Speaking of rebels, how many of them are in the Romanov Prospect cell, if there's such a cell?"

"Five as of the Krakozhians' last count."

"Heads up, they're here," said Slavin, pointing towards a plain black van that had stopped in the middle of the field they were watching.

"Good thing the moon is behind us," said Carter, taking pictures of the members of the Romanov Prospect cell. She had picked up a liking for photography during one of her many missions for the PPP, and therefore knew that moonlight had almost the same effect as sunlight.

"The men from the Red Army should be coming right now," said Slavin. As soon as he finished the sentence, another set of lights appeared, and it materialized into a Russian jeep. The driver got out and opened the rear doors. Two men got out, one dressed in a crisp suit and tie, and another dressed in the olive-green uniform of the Russian Army.

"I think I've seen the man in black before," said Carter. "Do you know him?" she asked everyone else.

"That's Vice Governor Kodudov," replied Rosie.

"Kodudov?" asked Lev Arigov. "What's he doing here?"

"Lev, look at the Army guy!" said Klimov. "Isn't that Beykurovich?"

"Who?" asked Carter.

"Oh, but of course," she heard Arigov sneer. "Who else but Major General Nikolai Beykurovich, commander-in-chief of the Chechen Provisional Armed Forces, one-time Hero of the Russian Federation, recipient of the Order of Lenin, the Order of Suvorov, the Order of Kutuzov, and the Order of the Red Banner, could be colluding with the rebels alongside Vice Governor Kodudov? He's certainly a good man worthy of his honors."

"If they're such righteous people," said Carter, "then what are they doing here, shaking hands and greeting the rebels like their blood brothers?"

"Hey!" said Slavin. "Looks like something's going down." In the field, Kodudov handed over a cream-colored brick to one of the rebels. The four zoomed in using their binoculars and camera. "American C-6 explosive," muttered Arigov. "These guys like to blow things up."

After a few minutes of transferring the C-6 to the rebels, the two sides broke up and headed for different directions. Arigov, Klimov, and Slavin decided to follow Kodudov and Beykurovich, leaving Carter and Rosie to tail the rebels. They took a winding path to their ultimate destination, an abandoned warehouse smack in the middle of the prospect. The two women parked their car a few blocks away and returned to the warehouse on foot. Climbing the local version of a Dumpster, they peered inside.

Two rebels were repainting the truck in a camouflage pattern, while another two were loading the C-6 into the back of the truck. Their leader, meanwhile, was preparing the equipment that would transform the Ural-4320 into a bomb truck. A spray-on tag bearing Cyrillic writing and new plates were present around the truck.

"The Bezzavetno Shipping Company," said Rosie, reading the writing on the truck. "What an apt name."

"Yeah, well, I just want to finish this and get out of here," said Carter. After taking a few more photographs, the two got off the Dumpster and disappeared into the night.


	26. Going Easy

No man has the ability to see into the future, and because of that, no one was able to predict how Governor Tarenin would take the news that his vice governor was actually a collaborator with the very rebels that he was trying to eradicate. He became contemplative and depressed after hearing said news, and even though his doctor had given him some medicine, some of that earlier depression still remained in him.

Aleksey Tarkovsky was dozing off in his office—it had been a busy morning earlier—when he was called for by the Governor.

"Yes, sir?"

"Aleksey, will you be kind enough to open that bottle of Stolichnaya in my cupboard over there?"

"Is there a cause for celebration, Comrade Governor?" Tarkovsky asked as he poured the drink into two glasses.

"No, not when I think about it, Aleksey," Tarenin replied. "I just wanted to share my thoughts with a friend, a real friend, a friend that I can trust."

"What exactly is on your mind, Governor?" asked Aleksey, taking a seat in front of Tarenin's table.

"I honestly thought that Kodudov was one of the good guys. I mean, he spat out enough anti-rebellion sentiment to shame even Kadyrov." He took a sip of the premium vodka. "He probably apologized for all that when they met. But then you never know. It's hard to read a two-faced man."

"You must feel disappointed, Comrade Governor."

"You have no idea, Aleksey."

"Anyway, I've heard that General Yevin isn't going to confront Kodudov and Beykurovich with the evidence of their duplicity."

"That's true, Aleksey," Tarenin replied. "Kodudov and Beykurovich are too popular with the Chechen people to be quietly removed from the scene. Besides, twenty photos aren't much evidence against a charismatic person like Zimyat, whose words people believe more than the Internet, if such a thing was possible. Yaroslav and his men are currently content with just gathering evidence against the backstabbing traitors. High on their lists are the rebels that they talked to that night."

"How about the troop movements to Stavropol?"

"Don't you remember? They have a training exercise scheduled with the First Shock Army and the 239th Stavropol Guards."

"Oh." Tarkovsky nodded. "Well, Governor, since we're on the subject, what do we do if the rebels make a move for the Third Chechen War?"

"Well, the operational assets, namely the Federal Government Airlift Group and the Gubernatorial Guards, have already been briefed on the possibilities of such an incident. In case this Third Chechen War does happen, the entire executive branch—yes, Zimyat is still included in that—will be airlifted out of the republic and into a safer area, probably Stavropol or some or oblast far away from Chechnya, where we will set up a government-in-exile and claim that we are still the rightful government of the Chechen Republic. Of course, the entire world will believe us—who would not when the Russian Federation still has lots of nuclear weapons in commission that can be used against anybody and everybody? Sure, it may start a nuclear war, but who cares about that?"

Aleksey Tarkovsky merely nodded. He knew that Tarenin really cared about nuclear war, meaning he didn't want it to happen as much as the next guy.

* * *

The Mil Mi-24 Hind helicopter gunship flew over the concrete jungle that was Groznyy before landing on the designated pad in Groznyy-Dzhokhar Dudayev International Airport, which also doubled as the main base of the Krakozhian Expeditionary Force to the Chechen Republic, the group of military advisors that fell under the command of the Krakozhian Liaison to the Chechen Republic led by Major General Yaroslav Mikhailovich Yevin.

This particular Hind, commanded by Captain of Aviation Ivan Maksimovich Arseni, had just finished a fire support mission for a Chechen battalion that had been attacking a suspected terrorist training facility somewhere north of the capital. He should add three more tank silhouettes and a grounded transport helicopter to the already impressive list of kills on the side of his cockpit. Of course, equal credit would go to his gunner, Sergeant of Aviation Segur Melitonovich Sonaria, who was the one actually behind the trigger that killed those vehicles. Arseni had guided him to the target, and Sonaria took care of the rest.

As Arseni and Sonaria stepped out of their chopper, they were greeted by a most surprising man: General Yevin himself. He was wearing the olive flight suit now common throughout the world's many air forces, even though he was an Army general and had logged in only a few hours in single-seat trainers. His hands were tucked into his wool-lined bomber jacket, yet another uncommon feature on him; he never tucked his hands into his pockets, whatever the situation. After getting over their initial surprise, the two flyers saluted Yevin, who returned it and motioned for them to walk with him.

"How would you two feel about working for the Federal Government Airlift Group?" Yevin asked them as they walked to the terminal.

"The Federal Government Airlift Group?" asked Arseni. "Isn't that a Russian unit?"

"Technically, yes," replied Yevin, "but with Chechnya about to finally gain independence—for the second time if I remember correctly—the FGAG detachment in the country would become part of the new Chechen Air Force, and under the terms of the Voronezh Treaty we signed with them two years ago, we are legally required to 'provide' them with advisors for a full year starting from their independence day. This 'chopping' to the Group will serve to get you acquainted with their personnel and vehicles, and the role that you two will soon serve is to advise our flying Chechen comrades on doing it right. The Krakozhian military has an impressive history of training the fighting forces of then-fledgling countries like Katanga, Biafra, Transkei, and the like from a ragged bunch of peasants that their oppressors see as bugs to merely crush under their heavy and brutal foot to real armed forces that nations fear and respect. We—that is, me and the FGAG commanders—hope to see you two as part of the continuation of that history. Is it all right with you two?"

Arseni looked up. "Is it a volunteer gig?" he asked the general.

"Of course," Yevin replied, acting surprised to hear the question. "Turmaryan Muktarbariyev and his Karoshan Defense Corps never brought along anyone who didn't volunteer to come with them."

"Well, count me in, General," Arseni replied, "Especially when you mention General Muktarbariyev and his heroic Corps. I can't speak for Segur Melitonovich over there, however."

"Count me in, too, Comrade General," Sonaria said.

"That's good to hear," Yevin said, patting their shoulders. "Now, continue walking with me."

"As you say, sir." As they walked into the terminal building, Arseni said, "General, may I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead, Ivan Maksimovich."

"Sir, I've been hearing these rumors. They said that there will be a big attempt on the Chechen government sometime soon, and that the rebels are preparing for a massive new offensive. Are they true?"

"Don't worry, Ivan Maksimovich. With the number of roadblocks and checkpoints we've recently established in and around Groznyy, and with our Russian and Chechen allies to back us up, there is no way that the rebels can successfully attack the government that we were all sworn to protect."

"But why did we just move three motor rifle divisions and an entire tank army to Stavropol?"

"They're participating in live-fire exercises with the Russian Army. Don't worry, Vanya; they'll be back as soon as the exercises are over."

"I don't know, Comrade General, sir. Speaking freely, sir, I would like to say that we're about to jump from a puddle of ankle-deep shit to a pool of waist-deep shit."

* * *

A/N: Sorry for Carter and Rosie's non-appearance in this chapter. They'll show up later. :-D - GR


	27. So Close Yet So Far

"The final checkpoint has been established, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, Lev," replied Lev Arigov. "You know who and what to look for."

"Yes, Lieutenant." The radio then crackled back to static.

"That does it," said Lev. "The trap is set, the hunter is waiting for his prey."

"Let's see those rebels try to get through that," Vyacheslav Klimov added, leaning back on his chair.

"I don't think it's time to celebrate," said Carter. "I mean, we haven't caught them yet."

"Don't worry, my American comrade," said Lev, "the Chechen insurrection is as good as dead tomorrow, what with its biggest plot ever being foiled."

"You do know that insurrections don't end overnight," Rosie added. "Especially one now so deeply rooted into the culture of the local populace."

"Oh, come on, they're about to gain independence anyway," said Vyacheslav. "What's a few more weeks of Russian oversight to them? And why can't they just wait to elect themselves into office so they can turn this country into an Islamic state legally all that?" He tossed back his glass of vodka after saying that.

"Fine. Whatever you say." But something deep inside Carter told her that this op would blow up right in their faces.

* * *

An olive green Ural-4320 truck drove up to the checkpoint on Great Patriotic War Avenue, having been directed to it by a patrolling policeman. A young woman stepped out of the cab and was directed to a full-body scanner by a female Russian soldier. Meanwhile, two more troops, Chechens this time, inspected the truck. The soldier in the back shouted something and threw an orange to the soldier in front, who laughed and began peeling off the skin of the fruit. Finally, after a few minutes, the soldiers seemed satisfied that the woman was bringing nothing more dangerous to the Chechen Republic than oranges, and they let her go her way. The soldier eating the orange watched silently as the truck moved away, and then he picked up his radio and thumbed the microphone switch. "Sergeant Zabayev to Lieutenant Arigov," he said.

"This is Lieutenant Arigov," was the reply. "What is it?"

"The subject has passed by my checkpoint one minute ago. It looks like our mutual friends have hired a woman to do their job." By mutual friends, he meant the rebels.

"Huh. Do you have pictures?"

"_Da, tovarishch_. I am sending them over now."

"I have them. Arigov out." To Rostislav Abramov, he said, "Send these pictures to all of the checkpoints. Now!"

* * *

"Have you arrived at your destination?"

"Not yet. What is it that I'm doing, Idris? What do you have piled onto this truck?"

"It doesn't matter, sister. You do your job, and I'll do mine."

"If we both make it through this, I am going to kill you, Allah forbid."

"I love you too, my dear sister."

* * *

Nobody paid the young man running through the Capitol any attention, and although he told nobody this, he was glad for it. He had a very important piece of intel to tell the powers-that-be in Chechnya, and he couldn't afford any delays at all.

"Excuse me," he asked a receptionist. "I'm looking for Lieutenant Lev Arigov of the Krakozhian Expeditionary Force."

"His office is on the third floor," the receptionist replied, "between General Yevin and their technical staff."

"_Spasiba, gospodin_." The boy then ran for the stairs, taking the steps three at a time, bumping into a lot of people in the process. He reached the third floor in record time, and he scanned the rows of doors for the right one. _Leave it to bureaucracy to complicate even simple things like doors_, he thought. He finally located the proper door, and without even bothering to knock, barged into the room.

"Yevgeniy!" a startled Arigov managed to say. "What are you doing here?"

"I have something important to tell all of you," replied Yevgeniy Leninsky. "It's bad news."

"Okay. Tell us."

* * *

The woman turned the Ural-4320 truck onto Dzhokhar Dudayev Road heading for the Capitol, but she found her way blocked by Russians and fellow Chechens armed with rifles, shotguns, machine guns, armored personnel carriers, and tanks. She slammed her foot hard on the brakes, and the wheels of the truck screeched in protest. One of the soldiers shouted through a megaphone, "Remove your hands from the wheel and slowly get out of the truck." The woman had no choice but to comply, and as soon as her foot ventured out of the safety of the cab, she was roughly hauled out by a muscle-bound female Russian soldier armed with a TOZ-194 shotgun and brought down to the ground.

"Check the cargo hold!" shouted the checkpoint commander.

* * *

"_Nyet_!" shouted Arigov. "That's impossible!"

"Trust me, comrade, sir," replied Leninsky, "I, too, wish it were not so. But I heard it straight from the Idrisovs' mouths themselves."

"But how?" Arigov asked the young man. "How could they have done such a thing?"

* * *

The soldiers inspecting the back of the truck opened crate after crate of oranges, and lots of the fruit were now scattered on the road, attracting a small crowd of curious onlookers, which were quickly shooed away by machine gun-toting individuals. "There's nothing in here, Comrade Sergeant," one of the inspectors finally said. "Nothing but oranges, obviously."

"_Nichevo_," the sergeant muttered. Then, turning to the captured woman, he asked her, "What is your name, rebel?"

"Fatima bin Musa al-Idris."

"I thought so." The sergeant then asked for a radio.

* * *

"What are they talking about?"

"The rebels have somehow stashed their explosives in another truck, different from the one that we saw a few nights ago," replied Rosie. _Of course she had to translate for Carter_, she thought. She considered teaching her the basics of Russian, along with Spanish, French, German, and Filipino, as soon as this mess was over. "The one we saw will only be carrying fresh oranges."

"That means that—"

"The real bomb is still loose!" Lev and Carter said at the same time.

The radio on Lev's desk crackled to life. "This is Arigov. Who is it?" he said.

"This is Sergeant Torbunov at Dudayev Road," the sergeant replied. "We've captured the driver of the truck. She claims to be Fatima Idrisov, Comrade Lieutenant."

"I knew it," Arigov muttered through gritted teeth. "Take her to custody."

"Who's Fatima Idrisov?" asked Carter.

Rosie and Yevgeniy opened their mouths and almost spoke at the same time, but Rose decided to give way to the young man. "Fatima Idrisov is just one side of the Idrisov Three," Yevgeniy said. "They're the ones that lead the Romanov Prospect cell that you guys reportedly documented some time ago. She's their planner, more or less; she's never been much of a doer herself. She probably did this only because Idris told her so."

"Now, I'm confused. "Who's Idris?"

"He's the leader of the Idrisov Three. Idris Idrisov leads them all. Darood Idrisov is most probably their messenger boy. And Fatima Idrisov, you already know. That's the way they roll, and has always been ever since they took over for the great Musa Idrisov, Allah bless his soul."

"What do we have on them?" asked Arigov.

"Enough to build a file, but that's it," replied Klimov. "Shit!" He immediately dialed a number. "Rostislav, put out broadcasts for both Idris and Darood Idrisov, Idris and Darood Idrisov. Add a priority heading for Idris, _da_? Remember, our priority is on Idris Idrisov!"

"Yes, Lieutenant," Abramov's tinny voice replied on the phone.

* * *

Idris Idrisov, thanks to some very good luck, advanced planning, and an intimate knowledge of Groznyy's back streets and alleys, had managed to avoid all the checkpoints erected by the Russian and Chechen forces. After passing through a tight one-way street, he finally laid eyes on his target: the Groznyy Shopping Mall and Convenience Center. He paid the parking fee of twenty rubles with cash, and then searched the parking lot for an open slot before finally parking in the middle of a cluster of cars. He then got out, went into a fast-food store, and ordered a burger and fries. As he ate, he recalled the words that his contact had told him: _detonate the bomb in a place where it will cause maximum physical damage but minimal loss of human life, and do not blow it up until it is within sight of the Army, but make sure that no soldier is within the danger radius of the bomb. Let them think that they have come so close, and yet still so far_. _Well_, he thought, _if that's how you want to play, then that's the way I'll play too_.

Unknown to him, the parking attendant had already recognized his face, which was being shown on television all over Chechnya. The attendant immediately dialed a secure phone number in the Capitol and told the people at the other end as soon as Idrisov left his sight.

* * *

"We've got him!" Lev shouted gleefully. "Idrisov has been spotted in the Groznyy Mall! This may be our only chance to nab him. Let's go!" To Leninsky, he said, "Stay here until this shit is over."

He, Vyacheslav, Carter, and Rosie jumped into a UAZ-469 jeep with miniature flags of Russia, Krakozhia, and Chechnya flying on the hood as ornaments. Lev placed it in second gear as soon as he got in and started the vehicle, and soon, they peeled out of the Capitol's underground parking lot and into the street.

"Why did you say…" Carter tried to say through the many twists and turns of the jeep, "that this… is the only chance… to grab Idrisov?"

"Idris Idrisov is like a ghost," Lev replied. "Sure, we heard the rumors about him when we first got here, and we were able to build a file around all that, but we had nothing much in the way of real, concrete facts. Those pictures of him that you took a few nights ago were the first recent ones that we got. Before that, our latest picture of him was his high school yearbook photo."

"Dump truck!" shouted Vyacheslav.

"Whoa!" Lev made a tight right turn away from the truck. "Damn. As I was saying, we had nothing much on the Romanov rebels until you two came along and took all those photos. I'll have to congratulate you two for that. Maybe I can wangle some Order of Zorkin, Third Class medals for you two."

"Car!"

"Also, they managed to change their plan soon after we captured Cotton. We know it can't be Kodudov; he supplied them with the C-6 bricks and not much else. It can't be Beykurovich too, for almost the same reason as the Vice Governor. The way I see it, only one of two things could have happened: either Idrisov automatically became the new rebel leader of the Groznyy cells, or someone else has taken Cotton's place and is manipulating the rebels to his or their wishes."

"That is fast," said Rosie. "In the PPP, it takes a week or more to properly set up a new network in a new country; three days or so if it's urgently needed."

"Well, these rebels made a new one in two days," said Lev. "I'm telling you, these guys aren't just beyond professionals. It's like they've planned for every conceivable thing that could happen, and have a contingency plan for each scenario."

The radio suddenly crackled and beeped. "This is Lieutenant Klimov," Vyacheslav said as he took the microphone. "What is it?"

"This is Sergeant Glaser, Comrade Lieutenant. We've captured Darood Idrisov and his buddies in their home in the Romanov Prospect. They didn't put up much of a fight."

"That's good to hear, Ervin. Anyway, we're investigating a possible sighting of Idris Idrisov in the Groznyy Mall. I would really appreciate it if you and your men came along to back us up. Also, call Lieutenant Barbayev and his bomb squad down here. Okay?"

"Yes, Comrade Lieutenant."

They arrived at the Mall some time later. Lev flashed his identification card at the attendant and asked him, "Where is he?"

"He's in the fast food store," the attendant replied. "He hasn't moved anywhere for the past half-hour."

Lev nodded and motioned for the others to follow him. But just as he had taken a step forward, the single truck in the middle of the car-dominated car park exploded, sending up a huge fireball that consumed the truck and the two cars beside it, scorched the paint in others, and set car alarms ringing all throughout the lot.

"Damn it!" Lev shouted, just as Lieutenant Lev Barbayev's bomb squad arrived in their own truck, too late to do anything but wait for the firemen to do their job, so they can finally examine the wreckage and determine what the bomb was and how it was detonated. As the written-off truck burned, the four of them could see Idris Idrisov, who gave them all a salute before he disappeared once again.

* * *

"We were so close to capturing Idrisov," Lev muttered. "We were this close!" He held up his thumb and index finger, which were almost sticking together, to emphasize his point, and then he slumped back in his chair. He turned to face the two ladies and said, "I guess I owe you two some drinks."

"In light of recent events, I don't think I'm obliged to accept," replied Carter.

"Thank God. I think Vyacheslav and I just went through the last bottle of vodka in Groznyy. But seriously, guys, we need to know what went wrong. How did Idris Idrisov manage to slip through our security nets and escape our clutch when he detonated his bomb?"

"Well, you said it yourself," Carter replied. "Idrisov's a ghost; disappearing right after an attack would be like child's play for him."

"But why did he stick around to watch his masterpiece before leaving? If I recall correctly, he gave us a salute before his disappearing act."

"He doesn't strike me as someone who takes unnecessary risks. The salute was probably to taunt us, knowing that we know that we can't ever possibly catch him."

"Hey, comrades, haven't you noticed something odd?" asked Vyacheslav suddenly, surprising everyone in the room. "Forget about Idrisov and focus on the attack itself. Wasn't it supposed to be in the Capitol? Why did the rebels suddenly decide to attack the Groznyy Mall?"

"You said that it's possible for the rebels to have set up a new network with their controllers," Rosie suggested, speaking up for the first time since the attack. "Maybe their plans changed as soon as they realized that their first ones were compromised."

"Hold on," said Lev. "Are you telling me that everything that we have on them, all of the computer files about their plans, all of them should be considered invalid?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Arigov, as a matter of fact, I am. And, if I can read the situation correctly, every piece of intel we have captured from the Romanov Prospect members must be considered invalid as well. They will surely change their plans again once word of their arrest reaches their contact."

"So we're back to square one on fighting these frigging rebels again," muttered Lev. "That's a comforting thought."

"It _is_ the truth," Rosie said emphatically. "No one can ultimately deny the truth." She then stood up and left, and Carter followed her soon after.

"She's right, you know," Vyacheslav said as soon as the two women left.

"Oh, shut up."


	28. Winds of War

"I think I'm losing my touch, Zimyat," said Dazdrapertrak Tarenin. "This attack would never have occurred in the early days of our administration. _Nyet_, the police would have captured the would-be bombers before they had even as much as spat the idea out of their mouths!"

"Don't talk like that, Dazda," replied Zimyat Kodudov, vice governor of the Chechen Republic. "You can't always catch every wrongdoer in Chechnya."

"Ah. I guess accepting defeat becomes harder as one gets older."

Kodudov leaned back on his seat. "Personally, Dazda, I think you've been working too hard in this office for too long. You should take a rest."

"Huh. You think I'm a workaholic, eh?" Tarenin chuckled. "But what about the government, Zimyat?"

"Don't worry about the government, Dazda. You've got me, remember? I'm sure it can function just fine without the great Dazdrapertrak Tarenin at its helm." The two politicians chuckled at the joke.

"So the rebels want my hide, eh? Bah! Screw them! They can find me in my dacha!"

"If you don't mind me asking, Dazda, where are you going to spend your well-deserved vacation?"

"I don't know; maybe Stavropol, Moscow, or Karelia. I think I'll surprise myself. Oh, and Zimyat? Do you want to know a secret?"

"What is it, Dazda?" asked Kodudov, making no effort to hide his interest.

Tarenin motioned for him to come closer and then whispered, "What I'm really worried about is that you might pull a '91 on me. But I'm sure you wouldn't do such a thing to me. I mean, I'm the one that recognized your potential and groomed you into what you are now."

"Yes, Governor, of course," Kodudov replied, almost stuttering in fear. _Is he onto me_, he thought. _I hope to Allah he isn't!_

"That's all, Zimyat, you may go," Tarenin said, waving his hand. Kodudov nodded, hoping that the governor didn't notice the sweat pouring from his pores or the sudden paling of his skin, and went out of the office. As that door closed, the one on the side of the office opened, and out came General Yaroslav Yevin. "Did he fall for it?" he asked the governor.

"Hook, line, and sinker," Tarenin replied. "He actually almost fouled himself when I told him about '91."

"And so begins Operation RED STAR. I must hand it to you, Dazda; your acting skills back there almost fooled me into thinking you were still friends with that backstabbing traitor. Tell me, Governor, where did you learn your acting skills?"

"I was a member of the Sukhumi Theatrical Troupe in my younger days, before I decided to join the Communist Party and become a politician."

* * *

"Arseni!"

Captain of Aviation Ivan Maksimovich Arseni of the Krakozhian Army Air Corps nearly fell out of his bunk as he heard his name being called. He was not on the alert lineup today—that was why he was sleeping right now—but he suddenly remembered that he had come in a little drunk last night. He already had two drinking misdemeanors on his file—all of them back when he was still a Private of Aviation, but in this case, it wouldn't matter—and if Command took note of this third one, then he was as good as grounded for two weeks.

A man in an olive flight suit entered his barracks. It was Segur Sonaria, his regular gunner. "You have an urgent call, Ivan Maksimovich. It's from General Yevin."

"What could it possibly be now?" He may have been transferred to the Federal Government Airlift Group now, but he was still technically under the Expeditionary Force.

"I don't know, mate. All he told me was to tell you that you have a call."

Sighing, Arseni got off of his bunk and followed Sonaria outside to the flight line, where a dozen helicopters and fighter jets stood waiting for the call to launch. Segur led Ivan into a hangar being used by the Spetsnaz as a training area and rally point, and inside was none other than General Yevin himself.

"I thought you said I had a call," Ivan told Segur.

"You do have a call, Ivan Maksimovich," Yevin replied. "A personal call." He beckoned the pilot closer. "I have a secret, special mission that I can entrust only to you."

"Really?"

"Yes, Ivan Maksimovich. Now, this is what's going to happen. Tomorrow morning, I want your helicopter fueled and ready on the flight line even if you're not on the alert lineup. You'll be picking up some special cargo that you must fly to Stavropol, to the headquarters of the 106th Tank Army, at once. I don't care how long you have to wait for the special cargo, just wait for it. Oh, and if you get a call to fly out of the airport, ignore it until the special cargo arrives. Also, utmost care must be provided to our special cargo. That means I can't have both of you crashing into a mountain somewhere in the Caucasus. Our ultimate victory may lie within your special cargo. Remember everything that I have told you about our special cargo, and we may just make it out of this alive. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Comrade General," Arseni and Sonaria replied at the same time.

"Good. I'll be seeing you off tomorrow." Yevin then turned around and left.

"What do you think could be our 'special cargo'?" Segur asked Ivan.

"I don't know, Meliton'ch," replied Ivan, "but if General Yevin thinks it's important, then I think it's important, too."

* * *

A/N: Once again, sorry for Carter and Rose's non-appearances. Bear with me, they'll come back next chapter!


	29. The Third Chechen War

Dawn came over Groznyy quickly, too quickly for Ivan Arseni's tastes. After a quick shave and a light breakfast, he roused Segur Sonaria and had him help him prepare their Hind while they waited for General Yevin and his "special cargo."

"Is she ready?" Arseni asked his gunner, referring to the chopper itself.

"As ready as she can ever be, Ivan Maksimovich," Sonaria replied. "I just hope the 'special cargo' isn't actually a nuclear bomb or something like that."

"Me too, _tovarishch_, me too."

* * *

The dawn had come too quickly for Carter Mason too, and she sat up on the bed in the hotel room graciously provided to her by Lev Arigov, contemplating about what was about to happen in this small soon-to-be country. Finally, after five minutes, she mustered the strength to get up and get something to drink, specifically the urn of coffee at her bedside table. She was very surprised when a single sip of the black coffee jolted almost every muscle of her body awake, and she remembered Lev's reminder that the coffee in this hotel had _at least twice_ the caffeine of most commercial brands. Carter shook off the mental cobwebs that somehow still clung to her mind and then headed for the shower to freshen up. After that, she ate her breakfast before finally attending to an important matter.

Carter had brought along both of her pistols. The first was a Makarov that had once belonged to her grandfather Alex, who claimed to have picked it up off a Soviet guard during his escape from the notorious Vorkuta gulag back in the 1960s, which had subsequently turned into a sort-of family heirloom with every Mason from Alex to Joe to Carter carrying it along in their missions for their various agencies. The second was a Tokarev TT-33 presented to her by the former Premier of Costa Gravas Alejandro Goya, after she had played a part in saving the latter's life during his country's transition from an iron-fisted dictatorship to a successful yet struggling democracy. She also remembered being awarded a medal, the Order of Santa Filomena or something like that, which came with a gold-and-purple sash. The Latin American countries really loved their sashes, didn't they? Even Rosie herself had a blue-and-yellow sash resembling the flag of Costa Luna for formal occasions, and the sash thing was already spilling over to other countries. Well, everybody loved status symbols, didn't they? Although she was sure that Rosie wore her sash more because of tradition and not just position.

_What the hell_, Carter thought. She put the Tokarev into its brown leather holster, which she cinched around her waist like a belt, and then she tucked the Makarov into the small of her back. She also checked both guns' ammo, and she made sure that she had two spare magazines for each weapon on her. Finally, she clipped the identity card that Arigov had given her to her shirt, which identified her as Senior Lieutenant Gavrina Vasilyevna Kumilyova of the Krakozhian Army, seconded to the Krakozhian Expeditionary Force to the Chechen Republic, and gave her permission to carry weapons in the soon-to-be country.

The walk to the Capitol was mostly uneventful, and Carter soon found herself on the third floor, where most of the administrative personnel of the KEF had settled in. What struck her as odd was the fact that most, if not all of the people there were armed with pistols and wearing bulletproof vests, even the tech weenies like Rostislav Abramov and his staff. It was a different matter inside Arigov's office, though. He and Klimov had placed their vests on stands near to their desks, which made a lot more sense to Carter once she thought about it. The vests were probably as uncomfortable as hell to wear while seated, but they wanted it in a place where they can quickly reach it when the call came.

"Hey there," Arigov said in greeting. "Where's your friend?"

"I don't know, maybe still fixing up." Carter leaned back on her chair. "So, the big one's for today, right?" she asked.

"Yes, it is. At least, that's what the Idrisovs told us. It's a shame that we had to find that out right now, when we can't do much about it except keep losses to a minimum. A day earlier and we could have rounded up a lot more suspects, but I guess we just have to work with the information that comes to us."

"We've all had that feeling before."

* * *

The Third Chechen War, like most all wars, began with a single gunshot. In this case, it was from an old Soviet-era pistol fitted with a bulky silencer, and its target was an old, balding security guard manning his post at the entrance of one of Groznyy's three radio stations. The guard died almost instantly as the nine millimeter bullet penetrated his skull, tore through his brain and spine, and finally exited in a red cloud of gore before smashing into the concrete wall behind him. His attacker didn't even pause to watch his handiwork though, as he hurriedly led his comrades through the building and into the broadcasting room. There, he found the DJ deeply engrossed with the music he was playing, but he only had to point the pistol at him for the DJ to silently raise his hands and relinquish his seat. The attackers' leader took a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, spread it out in front of him, cut the music, and spoke the words that would change Chechnya forever.

* * *

"Comrade Lieutenant?" Rostislav Abramov said as his head peeked into Arigov's office. "It's begun. The rebels took over Radio Groznyy, just as they said they would. They're spouting their regular anti-Western bull there right now."

"How about the police stations, checkpoints, and garrisons? Any attacks on them?"

"Nothing yet, sir, but it's got to be soon. Say, five to ten minutes from now."

"That's a comforting thought," said Carter.

"Call the general," Lev told Vyacheslav. He picked up his cellphone, pressed a button, and placed it next to his ear. "Comrade General? It's Vyacheslav Il'ych. It has begun."

Suddenly, red lights and klaxons turned on throughout the Capitol. The employees dropped everything that they were doing and filed for the proper exits, guided by the soldiers and guards with them. Many of them began calling their relatives, telling them that everything was all right, they were fine, take care of themselves, and that they'll be back soon. All in all, it made for a very noisy evacuation.

In the third floor, Lev, Vyacheslav, and Carter were escorting Governor Tarenin—also clad in a bulletproof vest—to an emergency stairwell when Rosie joined them. "Where have you been?" Carter asked her.

"I was following a lead on Idris Idrisov's whereabouts. And then I heard the sirens and the alarms and the anti-Western sentiments of Radio Groznyy's new morning disk jockey, so I figured that this was where I should be for this coming battle."

"Oh, it'll be a battle all right," said Vyacheslav. "Rebel artillery has begun bombarding the south and east of the city, and rebel fighters have been spotted loitering somewhere in the north. It isn't a good day to be a Russian peacekeeper here right now."

The stairwell took them right to the underground parking lot. The group piled into a plain black van right in front of them, and soon they were navigating the now-very-much-deadly streets of Groznyy. Artillery rained down on them, but Vyacheslav's very radical driving skills just barely kept them alive.

They arrived at the airport just as the first shells began to fall. Most of the Air Force planes and choppers except one had left, and that one remaining chopper was already preparing to leave, if the turning rotors weren't indication enough. Generals Yevin and Churbanov and a few Chechen government bigwigs were already inside, and Lev practically shoved Governor Tarenin inside. As he began to close the doors, the governor asked him, "Aren't you fellows going with us?"

"We still have some more jobs to do, Comrade Governor!" Arigov shouted over the screaming engines. "We will follow you as soon as we can!" To the pilot, he said, "Go! Go before one of these shells land a direct hit!" The pilot saluted crisply, turned his attention to his chopper, and then lifted it off the ground, flying away just as a shell landed right where it had been a few moments ago.

Now it was the four's turn to run. They piled back into the van and peeled out of the now-heavily-bombarded airport, and Vyacheslav steered it into Groznyy's near-confusing web of alleys and back streets. "Dammit, where is he?" he muttered to himself.

He spotted something white fluttering in the corner of his eye. He stepped on the brakes and waited long enough for a person to board the van before peeling out of the area. "Nice of you to make your presence known," he told the newcomer.

"_Spasiba, tovarishch_," replied Yevgeniy Leninsky. "It always feels good to be appreciated."

"Why weren't you at the agreed meet? Was someone else there?"

"Not just someone else, comrade. A squad from Intel Group Nine was already camped at the extraction point when I got there, and they accused me of defecting to the Western infidels! _Da_, right! Like that'll ever happen!"

Intelligence Group Nine was one of the most feared Chechen rebel groups in history. Originating from the first Ichkerian Republic under Dzhokhar Dudayev, IG9 was a glorified death squad, eliminating troublesome dissidents, both Chechen and Russian, quickly and quietly and with the unspoken sanction of the government. They had been forced to hide from the reprisals that were sure to come after the Russians flooded back in to Chechnya, biding their time and funding themselves through kidnappings-for-ransom and extortion. Few, if any, had survived an attack from them, and the news that they were participating in this Ultranationalist-funded war was a very bad sign. "How did you survive, Yevgeniy?" Carter asked the twelve-year-old. "I mean, someone so young to have made it through one of the most murderous rebel bands in the country?"

"Oh, don't be so surprised, lady comrade," Leninsky replied. "It was actually very easy. Kill their leader, and then run away as fast as you can."

Carter was honestly impressed. It took balls of steel to attack the most feared band of rebels alone and almost unarmed, and judging by Leninsky's story, he had a pair of titanium ones. "What were you packing?"

"I didn't have nothing on me when they got me, comrades! I had to steal Old Marduk's gun just to get away! At least the Chinese finally made a weapon that works!" He held up his war trophy, a QSZ-92 pistol, for all of them to see before tucking it in the waistband of his jeans. "Oh, don't act so surprised about it," he told Carter when he noticed that she was still staring at him. "Magnus Kane is more bloodthirsty than every member of IG9 combined could ever hope to have."

"I assume we still have another 'job' left to do, Lieutenant," Rosie asked Arigov.

"Roger that, Comrade Queen," he replied. "One more job left to do."

Vyacheslav pulled the van over to a small police precinct. The four jumped out, and as Leninsky made to follow them, Lev said, "It's best if you stay here in the van." Yevgeniy agreed to the idea. To the girls, he said, "Pick up those black sacks in the back. We're going to need them."

Surprisingly, despite the deep earthen rumblings of falling artillery and the confused chatter on the radios, the precinct was still manned by two officers, a private and a senior inspector. However, as they got closer it became apparent why the police were still manning the precinct: it was a jailhouse. Vyacheslav took his wallet, presented it to the officers, and said, "I want prisoners 1127, 2500, and 2501 turned over to me immediately. They have information that may be vital to us."

"1127, 2500, 2501…" the inspector muttered as he entered the numbers into his prisoner database. "Um, Comrade Lieutenant, we may have a little problem. You see, prisoners 2500 and 2501 can only be turned over to someone with a clearance level of Two-Delta and higher. You only hold clearance level Three-Alpha, sir."

"Well, I don't know it you know this, Comrade Inspector, but with the Third Chechen War blazing all around us, I have been given clearance level Two-Victor by my commanding officer General Yaroslav Mikhailovich Yevin. Now, I suggest that you turn over these three prisoners to me right now or else I shall take them myself."

"Comrade Lieutenant, we weren't informed of your sudden promotion in clearance levels. Your commanding officer generally informs us of a change in clearance level via phone call. Maybe I should call General Yevin about this." The inspector reached for the telephone beside him.

"I'm afraid you can't do that, Inspector," Vyacheslav replied, his voice now gaining an icy tone. "General Yevin has already left for Stavropol, along with Governor Tarenin and the rest of his battle staff. Now," he continued, drawing his Desert Eagle pistol from its holster, "are you going to give me my prisoners?"

"But, sir, I must protest! The proper protocols are not being followed! Besides, how am I to know if you really are one of General Yevin's men? For all I know, you're a rebel with a very convincing identity card—"

The loud report of the Desert Eagle echoed throughout the precinct building. After the ringing in everyone's ears had cleared, they could see a big hole in the wall beside the inspector's head that wasn't there before. Vyacheslav turned his pistol so that it was now pointed at the cowering and very surprised inspector. "I won't repeat this again," he said. "I want you to give me prisoners 1127, 2500, and 2501, or else this will be the last thing through your mind."

The inspector gulped visibly, and then he nodded to the private, who stepped out of the desk and went down the hallway. Vyacheslav motioned for the rest of his group to follow him, and then, to the inspector, he said, "A wise choice, comrade. But I think I'll stay here, just in case you do something… unpleasant."

The private stopped at a section marked SPECIAL DETAINEES and unlocked the first three cells, shouting orders for their occupants to step outside and prepare to be handcuffed. Carter recognized them as Ssottokkodd Ballall, and the infamous Fatima and Darood Idrisov. "Them?" she asked Lev. "Seriously?"

"Yes, comrade, seriously," he replied matter-of-factly. "Help me put these on." He tossed the two women black sacks, and it didn't take them much to realize the sacks' purpose. They threw the sacks on the heads of the three detainees, and then led them out to the main hallway.

"You will be rewarded for this, Inspector," Vyacheslav told him as he left. "That is, if you make it through the war alive."

They piled back in to the van, where Yevgeniy Leninsky was waiting for them. "Where have all of you been?" he asked them. "You told me to stay here, but that's a little bit hard if you even paused to consider the artillery raining down on us! And who are they?" He gestured at the three prisoners. "Some old friends?"

"They're some of _your_ old friends, Yevgeniy," Lev replied, "so I'd watch my tongue if I were you."

"Where to now?" asked Carter. "Not the airport, I hope. I mean, with this kind of bombardment, I'm sure there's nothing there that we can even hope to use."

"Actually, it's a small airfield where some of the short-range Aeroflot feederliners used to land," Vyacheslav replied. "Our ride out of here is over there." He pointed at a small airplane just in front of them, which Carter had somehow not seen. Not just that, she hadn't realized that they were already inside an airport until he pointed it out to her. She stared at the Antonov An-14 disbelievingly and said, "Can that thing really get us out of here?"

"Oh, don't worry," Lev told her. "Comrade Antonov will take his friends where they have to be. Now come on! We have to get out of here before the rebels find this strip!"

They boarded the aircraft quickly, and while Carter, Rosie, and Yevgeniy secured the prisoners to their seats, Lev and Vyacheslav were already spinning up the engines so that they could take off as soon as possible. When they were all in their seats, Lev accelerated the An-14 until it reached takeoff speed. He pulled back on the control yoke, lifting the nose and then the entire plane off the ground and away from battle-scarred Groznyy.

"Next stop, Stavropol."


	30. A Quick End

The first days of the Third Chechen War were unexpectedly quiet. Aside from the irregular artillery or rocket bombardment of the belligerents, life in the Caucasus Mountains had actually become more peaceful than previous years. The Transcaucasian Army—formerly known as the Chechen Provisional Armed Forces—kept well inside the territory they controlled, while the Russian and Krakozhian Armies, nibbled at the edges of the Transcaucasians' territory.

That all changed when the Transcaucasians invaded neighboring Ingushetia. The surprised defenders withdrew to their capital Vladikavkaz and set up defensive lines. Augmented by the Krakozhians, the Ingushetians held back the Transcaucasians for a whole week before the latter broke through the former's lines and conquered the state. After this morale-boosting victory, the Transcaucasians became bold enough to expand their borders even more, launching attacks on North and South Ossetia and Dagestan. This time, the Russians and Krakozhians knew enough about their enemies' tactics to effectively delay and sometimes even push back the Transcaucasian offensive.

But the political leaders of both countries wanted the "Transcaucasian problem" to end. Dissatisfaction in some actively deployed units was high, and both doubted whether they still had the momentum to continue the war without turning it into a stalemate. And so it was decided that a small force of Spetsnaz troops from both countries would be inserted deep into Transcaucasian territory and tasked to the removal of Zimyat Kodudov from the Transcaucasian government, dead or alive.

Carter Mason and Rosie Fiore were part of that task force.

Either the Transcaucasians were very confident that nothing could ever penetrate their defenses, or they simply thought that the Russians and Krakozhians wouldn't make a move on their leader, though Carter as the choppers carrying the task force went deep into Chechen territory. A wall of steel greeted their small force as soon as they entered Chechen airspace, but after many near misses from anti-aircraft fire and surface-to-air missiles, they finally made it through to the practically undefended interior. Sure, the air defenses around Groznyy itself could probably stop a nuclear warhead, but once through that, there was nothing to protect the city itself.

"One minute, comrades," said the pilot on the intercom. The troopers inside the lead Hind clipped their harnesses to the rappel cables, which were already secured to the deck through eyeholes on the floor, and stuck out their rears in preparation for the coming jump. In that position, Carter could see that they were flying just above the tops of some buildings, and that they were fast approaching the Capitol.

"Go! Go! Go!" shouted the pilot. The troopers jumped out of the Hind, and in one quick motion unclipped their harnesses to the rappels and took hold of their weapons. As the flotilla departed the area, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and turning around, she spotted a rebel talking to something that looked like a radio. Carter immediately sent three rounds into his head. The man fell without a sound, with only the clatter of the fallen AK and the radio breaking the silence.

_There goes our stealth_, she thought. She tapped the shoulder of her second-in-command and, using hand gestures, ordered him to cut the power to the building. As she and the other troopers formed up in front of an emergency stairwell, the second-in-command reached into a power distributor and ripped out the cables. Carter kicked the door in and went down the stairs, followed by the Spetsnaz troopers.

The sudden darkness had thrown the rebel guards into chaos, and those lucky enough to have flashlights used them for what it was worth. But the troopers didn't need flashlights, for they had night vision equipment. They cut through the confused defenders quickly, leaving nobody alive. Both groups finally arrived at the door to the former office of the governor—now being used by Transcaucasian President Kodudov—and formed two groups at opposite sides of the door. Carter nodded at Lev, who nodded back before placing a square breaching charge at the door. As soon as he secured it to the door, he stepped back, and a moment later, the breaching charge exploded, and the task force troopers charged into the office, guns blazing. Five seconds later, no rebels were alive inside that room.

Lev walked towards the desk in the room and felt for the pulse of one of the bodies. There was none. He stood up, drew his hand across his throat, and said, "EMIR is dead."

EMIR was the codename for Zimyat Kodudov.


End file.
